I Found A Reason
by the-fraulein
Summary: preRENT. Mark and Roger take on suburban upstate New York with a combination of pretension, artistic merit and sarcasm. Eventual MR. UPDATED 07.01.12... WHAT
1. Cherry Coke and Blondie

**Disclaimer:** I don't own RENT.

**Author's Note:** This story will eventually be M/R, but it's also going to be wicked long, so you'll have to wait awhile. It's also sort of a request story, for rexmanningdays. Most of the general ideas are hers, so please fangirl her properly. And wish her a happy birthday, hers is Monday.

This story will contain a female OC. She will be a main character. She also will not be "involved" with either Mark or Roger. Ever. She's there to bring them together and be cute. Seriously, we promise. She won't boink the boys.

**I Found a Reason  
****Chapter One _–_**_ Cherry Coke and Blondie  
_**Roger's POV**

First thing in the morning, a guy I've never talked to before thumps me on the back and leans against the locker beside mine.

"Roger, man! Been looking for you since school started. I saw the band last weekend. Amazing. Me and the guys all saw you, you know. And it looked like most of the girls did too." He winks. I stare, raising my eyebrows when he doesn't say anything for a moment. He looks slightly put off by my lack of enthusiasm at his presence.

"So, uh, we were thinking, you know, that you should really come to this party this weekend. When's your next show? Me and the guys were thinking since like, we know the band we could… hey, what are you doing for lunch today, man?" He throws an arm around my shoulders as I close my locker and start to move.

"I have a gig." I tell him, shrugging off his arm.

"During lunch?" He frowns, confused.

"No, jackass, this weekend. And your parties suck." I push him away and continue down the hallway, ignoring some other guy who calls my name and waves. Same as last year… even some of the same people. Most of these assholes never said a fucking word to me until I joined a band. Then out of nowhere everyone wants Roger Davis at their party because they hear he's some kind of suburban rockstar.

I frown, thinking that maybe I should have at least thanked him for liking the band. I mean… someone has to go to the shows for us to keep going. Maybe if they seem genuinely interested in me or the band I could try to be nicer, I guess.

I just don't really want to think about it. It's fucking junior year and my parents are getting sort of pushy about college. They're being nice enough about it and it's not that I'm totally opposed to it, but I just don't think it's to my advantage to go now. I'm sort of in my prime. If I'm gonna be a musician, I need to go out and get the gigs now while I'm young. I can go to college later.

And then the rehearsal schedule… I'll never have time to do the homework this year. I have to convince them to cut back. We don't need to practice together every night, we did that all summer. Even every other night would be fine, then I've got time to study too. I have no problem giving up weekends for the band, but I also have to graduate and keep my grades decent. It's not my fault if they don't care how they do in school. They're the ones who need to practice anyway.

A girl giggles to her companion as I pass them into the gym and I roll my eyes, pushing my way through the door and toward the locker room. Three days in and the girls are proving they haven't aged a bit over the summer. Giggling girls aren't too cute when that's all they know how to do.

Something big and sweaty nudges me out of his way and I scowl, rubbing my shoulder. I'm not really in the mood to deal with this now. Muscles continues on into the locker room and I straighten myself out and look over my shoulder for a teacher. Nobody's around, so I pull my pocketknife out and go to pick the lock on the door to the wrestling balcony. To my surprise, it's already unlocked. Shrugging, I push it open and slide in, shutting it softly behind me and starting up the narrow staircase.

The wrestling balcony is behind the second level of bleachers. With the bleachers folded up, there's a large space and when the bleachers are pulled out, there's just enough room behind them to sit comfortably. And with the floor being wrestling mats instead of the wooden gym floor, it's significantly more comfortable… and significantly harder for anyone to find me. I pull out a pack of cigarettes as I slip through some of the metal framework to find a place to sit and then stop suddenly, frowning.

Another boy seems to have a similar disinterest in gym class. He's small, has shaggy blond hair and thick glasses. I tilt my head slightly, watching him thumping his hands on the floor with a wrong beat to the music I hear coming from his massive headphones. His eyes are closed and he's bopping his head up and down, mouth moving with whispered lyrics and soft "ba da dah's". Of all people to be skipping gym to dork out to Elvis Costello.

"Little Marky Cohen!" I grin, kicking his leg gently. He pulls himself out of his little party and throws off the headphones, looking up with wide blue eyes, clenching his fists at his sides.

"Oh…" he sighs, relaxing. I drop down beside him and pull a cigarette and a lighter out. I offer the pack to him and he frowns slightly, and hesitantly takes one.

"Well don't take it if you don't want it. Cigarettes don't fall from the sky, Marky. I have to buy them."

He rolls his eyes, snatching the lighter from me. "What are these?"

"Cloves. Smell fucking killer, don't they?" I ask him, blowing my smoke to the side.

"Yeah…" he lights his and stares at it before awkwardly taking a hit. "No one can see the smoke up here?" he coughs.

I smirk at his watering eyes, watching him trying to offhandedly duplicate my practiced balance of holding the cigarette between my first two fingers. "I've been smoking up here since freshman year. Trust me, they've never thought to look."

He tosses the lighter back at me and I keep it in my hand, flicking it open and shut absently.

"Nice shirt." I offer, referring to the Blondie group shot on his chest.

"Oh… yeah. Thanks." He genuinely smiles and pushes his glasses up on his nose, staring at his shoes.

"The blue matches your eyes." I tease him, giving him a nudge. "What tape is that?"

"Bastard." He's still smiling though, and I enjoy that he's letting me poke fun at him. "It's This Year's Model."

"Wicked." I grin. "I figured, I've got the vinyl somewhere, I think."

"Hmm." He smokes and stares at me. "You still do vinyl?"

I let my head fall back against the wall. "Of course. It's still the best way to listen to anything."

He shrugs and falls silent. I flick open the lighter again and roll my thumb over the wheel until it lights. He finally resorts to staring at me playing with the lighter and I flick it close and pocket it, finding myself smiling almost shyly and rubbing my hands together for a lack of anything better to do.

"Didn't think you'd remember me." He remarks casually.

I grin at him. "Aww, Marky. How could I forget?"

"Well, you were always kind of a bastard."

"I still am. Promise." I hold up two fingers and smile. "Scouts honour." He smirks and watches me pick up another tape from beside him to examine, thinking for a moment.

I've known Mark since we were kids, both somehow conned by our parents into little league baseball. We used to eat snowcones together after practice, waiting to get picked up. He's always been sort of a quiet kid, and he keeps everything inside. I smile wryly, thinking of when a stray ball of mine knocked him in the head. Any other little kid, besides Mark, would have been crying in the dugout the rest of the day. But he sort of frowned, rubbed his head and staggered around for a moment, perhaps even with his eyes glistening, but he never cried. It sort of stuck with me. He was weird like that. Small little Mark with the big glasses, looking like a little blond mouse in his uniform, not quite sure how to put on his mitt the first practice. _"But I'm left handed!" _He had said._ "Shouldn't it go on my left hand?" _

I smiled. I hadn't seen him much after we both quit. Not until high school, and that was only in passing. His hair is longer, and he's developed a taste for geek rock I suppose, judging by Elvis Costello and the Devo tape I'm holding now, but he still looks like the same kid.

"Ever listen to XTC?" I ask him, checking the song listings on the tapes. He shakes his head, watching me.

"You should. If you like Costello, you know." I tell him and he nods slowly, studying me curiously.

He hits my arm. "Hey, gimme another cigarette."

"You little badass." I mock, holding out the pack.

"I usually hate smoking," he says. "But you're right, these smell really good."

I pull it back. "Well good, then I'll smoke. You can smell it. You weren't holding up so well, anyway." I take one for myself and pocket the rest, leaving him scowling at me before he rolls his eyes and reaches into his bag, pulling out a Polaroid. Before I can protest he snaps a picture.

"What the fuck is that?" My eyes cloud with white light for a few moments after the bright flash.

"We like to call them cameras, Roger." He says, pulling the picture out and dropping it on the mat in front of him.

"Well, someone is going to see the flash. Stop it. I'm not losing my gym escape because you need to preserve a memory."

"Oh grow up." He toes at the developing picture, smirking as my surprised expression becomes clearer. I smoke for a minute and he stares, pushing his glasses up on his nose and drumming his hands on his thin legs.

"So…" he attempts awkwardly.

I roll my eyes and stand up, suddenly thirsty. I reach into my pocket to feel a good amount of change. "You're such a spaz. Want a soda?"

He sort of smiles and stands up too. "Yeah, sure."

* * *

"Someone is going to see us."

I shrug. "Probably. Which is why this is so convenient." I pull my stolen hall pass out of my bag.

"Hooligan." He looks amused.

"Nah. If I was I'd be all dangerous and stuff without a stolen hall pass. This is actually sort of cheating." He leans against the wall, waiting.

"Shit man," I groan, counting change. "I was wrong, I've only got enough for one. Okay?"

"Sure." He shrugs.

"What do you want? Coke, root beer, some weird shit, Cherry Coke?"

He laughs, pushing his glasses up. "Cherry Coke."

"Nice." I muse, pushing in the coins and watching the can roll out. I hand it to him and he snaps it open before taking a drink.

"You have Chem next right?" He asks, passing the can to me.

"Yeah. How'd you know?"

"You're in my class."

"Oh… right." I frown, realizing I hadn't noticed him in it before and feeling like a jerk.

"Bastard." He teases, stealing the can back.

"I was probably sleeping." I admit. "First few days, you know? It's all just class rules and shit."

"Fucking lame." He agrees from behind the can.

"Why'd you go to the wrestling balcony? I've never seen anyone else up there but me during school." He passes the can to me.

Mark shrugs. "My sister told me she used to go up there to makeout with her boyfriend. That's why they started locking it during the day."

"Aww, they get caught?" I ask, handing him the can.

"Yeah, pretty much. But now it's even safer as long as no one sees you go up. And you're not the only one who can pick a lock." He finishes off the can.

"Fucker, I hardly got any." I growl, taking the can away from him and tossing it in the garbage, annoyed.

"Oh buck up, Rockstar." He mocks, pulling out the Walkman and shoving the headphones over his ears again.

I didn't even think he knew about the band, and pretty glad he hadn't mentioned it until now. I watch him walking away and jog a few steps to catch up. I throw an arm around his shoulders and wave the hall pass in his surprised face.

"Little Marky Cohen will get in trouble without this, you know."

He grabs it away from me and pushes me off as the bell rings and the hall fills up with other kids. I wait for him as he grabs books from his locker and follow him to Chemistry.

* * *

The seating chart doesn't have him next to me in Chem, but when the teacher decides to start a lab today he catches my eye and we nod together. We end up being equally amused by being assigned to create the different molecules out of a bunch of wooden spheres that fit together.

"What the fuck is this? We're in high school." He scoffs.

"Just go with it. We get to play with blocks all period." I tell him and he finally laughs.

To my further amusement, he gets frustrated after only a few minutes.

"Why isn't this working?"

"Because you're trying to build carbon dioxide with chlorine. You need the black one, not the green one." I hand him the right colour sphere and he frowns at it.

"What did you do, memorize the periodic table?" He scowls, pressing a wooden stick into another ball.

"No, I read the worksheet."

"Oh." He mumbles and pulls it in front of him.

"Hey, how'd you know about the band?" I ask him, tilting my head as I hold up Formic acid and snap at the teacher. She glares at me but nods at my molecule.

"I went last weekend for the newspaper, to take some pictures."

"School hadn't even started yet." I take apart my molecule.

"Well the editor called me and said he wanted some pictures for the first paper, the one that's coming out Friday with all the 'welcome back' bullshit. So I went."

I shrug. "So what did you think?" I ask, realizing it's probably one of the first time I've ever asked and not just been told.

Mark fidgets uncomfortably for a second, and a slight tinge of pink covers his cheeks. I smirk, knowing that look. I sigh and toss another hydrogen across the table for his water molecule.

"Liked it a lot, huh?"

Mark pushes his glasses up his nose and blushes harder.

"Actually, I uh… I really didn't."

My eyebrows shoot up in surprise and he stares fixedly into his work until I start laughing, startled to find myself almost relieved at his answer.

"Not your thing, huh? Too cool for you?" I tease, stopping him from trying to force a carbon to fit with his oxygen and hydrogens. "Mark… there's no carbon in water. You're done, just show her."

He holds it up absently. "Sorry." He mumbles.

"Honestly? I don't care. Actually, I'm almost glad."

He stares at me. "You're glad I think your band sucks?"

"Well, no. I'd actually want you to fill me in on why we suck, eventually. But seriously. I'm not my band. I don't care."

He gives me a real smile not laced with awkwardness and throws a chlorine at me and I catch it.

"First of all, there's your bassist." He starts as I check off the molecules we've built on our worksheet.


	2. Paper Airplanes and Geometry Proofs

**Disclaimer:** I don't own RENT. 

**Author's Note:** This is a pretty standard amount of time for an update of this story. It will be about a week, give or take a couple days. And they're long chapters. Yay.

This story will contain a female OC. She will be a main character. She also will not be "involved" with either Mark or Roger. Ever. She's there to bring them together and be cute. Seriously, we promise. She won't boink the boys.

**I Found a Reason  
****ChapterTwo _–_**_ Paper Airplanes and Geometry Proofs  
_**Mark's POV**

I head into the locker room alone after I don't see any sign of Roger Monday morning, XTC blaring through my headphones. I carefully shove the Polaroid into my bag, still holding a fresh picture with my thumb and forefingers. I lean against the lockers for a few minutes, watching the picture develop and letting the song finish. When the bell rings and the others start to filter into the locker room, I stuff the picture in the front pocket of my bag with the others and put both the bag and the Walkman in the bottom of my locker, and taking out my gym shirt. Pulling my shirt off knocks my glasses sideways and I frown and fix them before tugging the gym shirt over my head.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Roger coming through the door and I wave absently in his direction. He saunters over in his too-tight blue jeans and faded band t-shirt, studded belt slung low around his hips, blond hair gelled to perfection and an expression of immediate disappointment.

"Aww, you're gonna do shit today?" He slumps against the lockers, crossing his long arms across his chest and watching me unfurl my gym shorts. "You should just walk. You don't have to get dressed."

"Good point." I muse, tossing the shorts back in my locker. I take my glasses off before I pull the gym shirt over my head. Roger reaches into my locker and takes out my Walkman.

"What do we have today?" He opens it and pulls the tape out slightly to read the print, smiling to himself a moment later and singing something under his breath.

"You like it?" He asks a few moments later, flipping the tape over to read the other side. I find myself grinning rather stupidly when I toss my gym shirt back in the locker.

"Totally. Thanks for suggesting them. I bought it over the weekend." I hook a finger through my lock and twirl it over my finger, leaning against the locker next to mine. He puts the tape back and sets it down next to my bag in my locker.

"You've got good taste." He tells me, tilting his head and grinning absently. "Different than mine usually runs, but still pretty wicked."

I shrug, threading the lock through the hole and giving it a tug to make sure it's locked. He pushes himself away from the lockers and I fall into step beside him, putting my glasses back on. Roger hums to himself as we walk out to the track, eventually slipping into lyrics and then he's singing softly under his breath again. He stretches his arms above his head, his shirt riding up to show a inch of two of skin low on his stomach and revealing his sharp hipbones.

"Are you going to be able to walk all period with pants that tight?" I tease him. He smirks, dropping his arms and looking down at himself.

"I don't know… Are you usually able to keep your head up with glasses that thick? Or do you think you'll need a breather?" He grins, reaching over to slug me in the arm. I shrink away and block him, rolling my eyes.

"Hey, I saw the pictures from the show in the paper on Friday." He says suddenly, like he'd just remembered. "They were pretty killer. Do you have any left over from that roll? We could use some pictures for publicity and stuff."

"Oh yeah, sure. I'll get you the extras, if you want. How'd the show go Friday night?"

He nods, rubbing his hands together. "It was alright. Not our best, really. Great crowd, but just sort of lacking, you know?" He laughs. "Well yeah, I guess you do know."

"It's not you that sucks, you know that." I tell him again, feeling the need to reaffirm the positives of our discussion about his band last week. "And you really need to seriously rethink a lot of the covers you do."

He's nodding again. "What do you think of the guitarist?" He questions, crossing his arms over his chest.

I frown. "He's not terrible, but his rhythm is just off sometimes and…"

He laughs suddenly. "Mark, I've seen your concept of rhythm… it's not really on target. Tell me something else."

I blush, knowing he's probably right, but shrug it off. "Well he's alright, but I think you could do a lot better. Getting out there and finding someone better would probably really benefit your sound."

He claps his hands together. "I knew it. You know, I play guitar. I'm really fucking good too. I keep trying to convince them, but they were all together before I got there. It's not really my place, you know?"

"Oh, you joined their band?" I ask him, intrigued.

"They advertised looking for a singer. You really don't think he's all that great?"

"Well I've never heard you, but I guess I can take your word that you're better."

"I am, really." He assures me. "You know, I've been talking to our drummer. Me and him should really split off. If I can convince him his buddies just really aren't all that great, we could find ourselves a bass player and fix ourselves up real nice…"

He's off in another world at the moment, thinking out loud. I fill in a couple obligatory affirmations as he goes along. Finally he shakes his head and grins down at me, nudging my shoulder.

"Aww, you know all about me now. Tell me something about Marky Cohen these days. You and all your cameras, huh?"

I nod. "Yeah, I don't know. I like taking pictures of things." I shrug. "Not much to tell."

"Hmm." He studies me for a moment, making me uncomfortable under his gaze until he rolls his eyes. "C'mon man, tell me something. I feel like a jerk talking about my band that you hate all the time. What are you going to do with those cameras? Are you gonna be a photographer?"

I shrug again. "I don't know. It's just something I like to do."

He nods and lets it go. There's quite a lot dealing with photography I could gush to him about, but even I don't know what I'm doing with it. I love taking pictures of everything, and I love spending all the time developing rolls of film in the class and getting to know more about it, but even with all my interest it's just a hobby. It's not something I could say I identify with or would want to do with my life. It's so close but there's something missing from it.

"Hey, Roger." Two girls edge up beside him and his shoves his hands in his tight pockets after throwing me a very clear look of irritation.

"We saw you Friday." The other girl says. "It was great."

He smiles feebly, though it comes out more like a grimace. "Thanks uh… Karen?"

She frowns. "It's Kathy."

I snort and he throws me another look, before shrugging innocently. "Sorry Kathy. And um… well I don't think I've ever seen you before."

The girl practically throws herself at him, extending her hand. "I'm Emily. We have history together."

"Oh. Well, that's nice." He says awkwardly, looking over at me again.

"So when's your next gig?" Emily asks him, moving closer to his side. "Because I'd really like to get to know you better."

Roger turns his head quickly, taking in her overly done up face, tight clothes and mousy hair and coughs.

"Well actually, um, I'm sort of into celibacy these days." He nods at their surprised faces. "Yeah. It's really spiritual and shit."

The girls sort of back away from us, disappointed and annoyed. He rolls his eyes at me. "Fucking dammit. I hate people."

I can't help laughing at him. "That was surprisingly polite for you."

He frowns, his eyebrows knitting together. "Well, I figure I needed to stop being such an asshole to fans, you know? I mean, someone has to come see the band. If they all think I'm a jerk they're not gonna go. I know that one girl has gone to a lot of our gigs. Karen or Kelly or whatever her name was. And she brings a lot of people every time. So yeah." He shrugs it off, rolling his eyes and giving up on the act. "Who am I kidding, it's just PR. I'm still an asshole."

"I'm glad fame hasn't changed you." I mock him as the bell rings.

* * *

Chemistry drags by, while we take notes and stare indifferently at the periodic table. My notebook is starting to look less legible as the period stretches on and my notes are reduced to symbols and letters stuck together into long strings of nonsense. My head is getting heavy resting on my hand. My eyes are about to close when something hits me in the side of the head. I scowl down at my desk and notice the paper airplane. Across the room Roger winks at me, gesturing to the paper and turns back to his notebook. I roll my eyes and open it up.

_Why are helium, curium and barium medical elements?_

I stare down at the words in Roger's less than legible handwriting. I look over at him. He makes a turning motion with his finger. I flip the paper over.

_Because if you can't helium or curium, you barium._

I don't get it at first, still not understanding that it's a joke until Roger coughs into his hand and raises his eyebrows. When I don't respond he makes a face and turns away. I stare at it again and finally get the joke, however lame it is. I think for a minute, tapping my pen against the table and scribble down:

_Why do chemists like nitrates so much?  
__They're cheaper than day rates._

I wait until the teacher turns around and fold the airplane back up and throw it to Roger. Some other kids glare at me. I pretend not to notice. Roger looks delighted when he receives the paper, opening it up and covering his mouth to stifle a laugh. He turns the paper over and writes down another before he throws it back. I have to reach out to catch it before it hits the floor.

_What would you consider a doctor who didn't believe in anesthesia?_

I turn it over to read the other side and barely catch sight of the answer (_propane_) before I notice the teacher is staring at me. Roger is really laughing now. Asshole. She comes over to my table with her hand held out and I hand her the paper. She reads through our jokes and her face twitches as she tries to hide a smile. She hands it back to me and shoots both of us each a look.

"Pay attention. You can have fun with the material when you learn it."

Roger grins at me from across the room. I cross my arms and turn back to the front of the room and to my notebook. The first period of Chem ends and we work on our lab, another easy waste of time, finishing fairly early. Roger starts to fold a piece of paper, ripping off a section to make it a perfect square and then folding it several more times.

"Now what?" I ask him, checking over our lab worksheet, and tossing all our materials back in the box they came in.

"My little sister taught me how to make these. I'll tell you your future." He says, pulling out a pen and unfolding part of the paper to write on.

I sigh, watching him write. "You have a sister?"

"Mhmm." He nods. "Two. They're still little, but they're gonna be great girls some day. Here." He holds out the paper. "Pick a colour name."

"You're kidding." He doesn't respond so I sigh again. "Alright. Blue."

"Pick a number."

"12."

"One more number."

"Roger, you have a fraction in there. How do you do a fraction with that thing?"

"Oh, I just switch it to decimal form and then round it."

"Fine. 4."

He unfolds the paper thing and turns it to read.

"Mark wets the bed." He announces with a smirk. I feel my ears burning.

"That's not a fortune." I tell him, but he's halfway through figuring out his own. He unfolds it again.

"Roger is a sex machine." He nods, looking modest. "This thing is good."

"That's not a fortune either! Give me that." I take it from his hands and open it up to read through the rest of his fortunes.

"You can't do that, Mark. They won't come true then." He steals it back, getting up from the table and picking up his bag. "It's not my fault fortune is on my side."

* * *

Roger gets himself into an argument while we're going over our homework in Geometry. Some smart kid named John is drawing up a proof on the board and Roger snorts as he writes out his tenth step in the two-column proof. John frowns and turns around, glaring at Roger who is staring hard at the proof with his brow furrowed.

"You're wrong, you know." Roger says. "You can't just assume those are right angles. They're only right angles because you don't know how to draw. Those lines don't intersect and they aren't labeled right angles."

John looks back at the proof. "It said it in the book."

Roger rolled his eyes. "You're trying to prove that the triangles are congruent or similar or whatever. But they're not right triangles. It tells you that angle ABC and angle DEF are congruent. And then…"

"But they're right angles, then, if they're congruent."

"No they're not, dumbass." Roger says. At this point the teacher cuts in for a moment.

"Mr. Davis, we don't insult our classmates." Both of them ignore him.

"Don't call me a dumbass because you don't know what the fuck you're talking about." John says, frowning. "The rest of the proof is right."

Roger smirks. "Not really. And you could have saved yourself about half of those steps if you'd done it right in the first place."

"But the book…"

"Mark, give me your book." Roger demands, grabbing it off of my desk and flipping it open.

"Roger has a point." I say, not really having any clue what I'm talking about. Proofs are not my strong point. "There's, uh, congruent angles with, uh, lines. And then the lines are congruent because of the well… well that's what the book said. And I guess that means that…"

"It's alright, Mark. I got it." Roger waves me away and I back off, pushing my glasses up on my nose and slouching in my chair. At least I know who to ask for help with proofs later.

"See, look." Roger says. "You also forgot to draw in the dash marks on the lines. And then you can use side angle side."

"But you can't have that without a right angle!"

"Boys…" The teacher tries again, since John is starting to yell.

"Look, John." Roger sighs. "You're getting upset over nothing. Just look. You just read it wrong, okay? Settle the fuck down. It's an easy mistake. This is so dumb."

"Fuck you, man. You don't know what the fuck you're talking about. Fucking stupid."

"Language!" The teacher shouts, but he's ignored.

I hear a loud pop across the room and when I look over I see a blonde girl tapping one pink pump against the leg of her desk and pointing down into her book. She looks up, exasperated.

"John, Roger is right. Look, just go with side angle side and you can solve it really quick. Simple stuff. No reason to get your panties in a bunch. Just finish it the right way and get over it."

Roger looks pleased with himself and backs off while John scowls but erases his work and finishes the proof out the right way. I cross out a good deal of my own answer on my homework and try to copy down the solution on Roger's paper. He catches me looking and pushes it over to the edge of the desk.

"I'll help you later, Mark. It's all logic, it's easy."

The teacher, annoyed with all of us, launches into a lecture about not using profanity and showing respect in his classroom, though he was excited that we were passionate enough about Geometry to be in a full-fledged argument over something so insignificant. That earned me an eye roll from Roger and another pop of gum from across the room.

* * *

During lunch I head outside with Roger, intending on sitting near the building and making him teach me Geometry. To give him the general idea I take my book out of my bag and hold it, flipping through the pages absently as we walk. He watches me, his hands shoved deep in his tight pockets.

"I don't see what your problem is." He laughs. "Just look at what the book gives you, and what you need to prove. It doesn't matter how prove it, you just need to prove it. Here, come here, we'll go by the tree. It's shady."

He takes my book from me and flips through the review section of the chapter, nodding over some problems, singing to himself as we walk. We approach the giant willow tree and Roger starts to walk around it to the other side.

"Oh, hey." He grunts, stopping. I follow his gaze to find the blonde girl from Geometry with her back against the tree, a comic book in one hand and a half eaten green apple in the other. She's dainty, her hair styled into a shaggy bob, and big brown eyes. She smiles warmly, taking another bite out of the apple.

I wait for Roger to say something, but he's buried in the textbook.

"So uh, thanks for siding with us in Geometry." I offer, nudging Roger. He regards her closely, narrowing his eyes for a moment in thought before sighing, his eyes still wary.

"Yeah. Thanks, I guess."

She sets her comic book down, taking another crunch out of the apple and smiling again. "Well, you were right." She looks up at Roger with his textbook. "Still studying?"

"Mark needs help with his proofs." Roger tells her. I shrug helplessly.

"I'm Violet." She says, before biting into her apple again.

"Mark," I say, pointing to myself. "And Roger."

She smiles and holds up a hand, I assume to be helped up. I take her hand but instead of pulling her up she pulls me down to the ground beside her. Roger looks up when I go down, frowning slightly, but absently holding out his free hand to take her other one and join us. He drops the book in front of the three of us and pulls out a spare notebook.

"Here Mark, copy number 4. We'll help you."


	3. Handstands and Bandmates

**Disclaimer:** I don't own RENT.

**Author's Note:** Sorry this took so long, college makes me very busy. It's been a very long week for me.Thank you for the warm reception to this story. Katie and I both appreciate the reviews very much. Remember that most ideas for this story are hers and she deserves at least half of the credit. Love her!

This story will contain a female OC. She will be a main character. She also will not be "involved" with either Mark or Roger. Ever. She's there to bring them together and be cute. Seriously, we promise. She won't boink the boys.

**I Found a Reason  
Chapter Three _–_**_ Handstands and Bandmates  
_**Roger's POV**

Mark squints down at his paper, pushing his glasses up on his nose and drawing out a triangle. Immediately I recognize half of his problem.

"Mark, you can't draw. What is that, a map of the town?"

He frowns and examines the lopsided shape. "I don't think it quite qualifies as that either."

I take his pencil from him and erase what he's drawn. "Here, let me." I pause for a moment, before grabbing the comic book from the girl and laying it flat on the paper, positioning it diagonally and dragging the pencil along the spine.

"Um… hey?" She crosses her arms and pops her gum.

"I need a straight edge," I tell her. "Look, Mark. Buy yourself a damn ruler and make triangles like _this_. Now pay attention."

He rolls his eyes but leans forward.

"Okay. It says 'if the altitude is drawn from the vertex of the right triangle to its hypotenuse, then the two triangles formed are similar to the given triangle and to each other'. So you need to draw yourself a triangle, which we have, so we'll label the angles now."

I hand him back the pencil. "A, B and C. Label them."

I walk him through the beginning steps of the proof, showing him how to label everything and write out the explanation. The girl hovers behind him, watching us work and occasionally throwing in extra advice.

"Alright. So if we're proving that the two new triangles are similar to ABC, we have to line up the corresponding angles. So just… well, just look at it a minute." I hand him back the pencil and he sits back on his heels, chewing on his lower lip as his brow furrows.

"Well," he says. "So if they share A, the right angles are at B and D. So… ABC is similar to ADB." He looks up at me, raising his eyebrows in question. I grin at him and slug him in the arm.

"Great. You totally get this." I lie down on my back and watch him write down the rest of the proof out of the corner of my eye. He rubs his arm and flips through the chapter. I close my eyes and yawn.

"What about the two column proofs, Roger?" He asks. "These are totally fucked up. No one thinks like this, it's completely backwards."

I open my eyes and prop myself up on one arm. "Maybe for you. Let me see."

The girl pulls the book over towards her. "If segments AB and DE intersect… then the opposite angles formed by the intersection are equal."

I frown at her. "Yeah. All right, start with what you know. Write what it gives you."

"But they're obviously equal. Why do I have to spend all this time writing it out?" He throws the pencil at me.

"Because I said so. You have to prove it, you can't just say it. That's the point of Geometry." I pick up the pencil and write out the first lines of the proof.

"Just ask yourself 'how do I know that' every time you can't figure out what to write down." The girl tells him. I vaguely remember her telling us her name, but it slipped my mind.

"Oh." He mumbles, clamming up a bit, obviously frustrated and perhaps even a bit embarrassed.

"Well, look. It's obvious they're equal. You know because x and z and z and y each make straight lines. You know those are equal because if x and z is the same as y and z then x equals y. Get it?"

Mark stares at me for a long moment, then slowly raises one eyebrow.

The girl smiles and takes the pencil from me, her eyes on Mark. "How do you do that? I can't do that."

Mark turns from me to her. "Do what?"

"Raise your eyebrow." She squints one eye trying to duplicate his facial expression. He looks over at me while she tries again with the other eye. I shrug.

"I don't think I can do it either." I admit, deciding to give it a try. Mark starts to look uncomfortable while we both contort our faces in a vain attempt to imitate him.

"Is this some sort of highly coveted skill?" His eyebrow goes up again in amusement and I can sense his frustration lifting for a moment.

"There you go again." The girl giggles.

"You're such a fucking rock star, Mark." I tease him. "Keep doing that and you'll have all the girlies in the palm of your hand."

He rolls his eyes. "It's not that impressive," he says, but he's blushing slightly. "Everyone has weird shit they can do."

"I can wiggle my nose." The girl announces and proceeds to demonstrate.

"Like Bewitched." Mark says. "Weird." He thinks for a minute. "I can roll my tongue."

I turn my head to watch him. "Eww."

He blushes again. "Fuck off, Roger."

I grin at him so he knows I'm only joking, then stand up and stretch.

"I fucking rock, because guess what I can do." I challenge them. The girl crosses her arms over her chest again and pops her gum. Mark smiles good-naturedly and goes along with it.

"Roger, masturbation isn't a talent. And if you pull it out right now I'll scream rape."

"You fucking wish." I tease before shifting my weight with my arms over my head and going into a handstand. I move my hands to turn myself so I'm facing them and even upside down I can see Mark being inadvertently impressed. I grin before my shirt falls over my face and I have to bend my legs down and stand back up.

"That's nothing." Mark says, standing up.

"Oh yeah? I can do cartwheels and shit too." I tell him, fixing my shirt.

"Well, I can climb this tree." He replies and starts backing up toward the giant willow to make good on his threat.

I take a seat on the ground next to the girl as Mark grabs a low branch and fumbles his way up the trunk.

"You have any more gum?" I ask her, yawning.

She reaches into a purse and holds the pack out to me.

"What's your name?" She frowns and I recognize that asking again probably makes me look like an asshole. I don't particularly care, but try to cover for myself anyway. "Sorry, I'm not good with that shit."

"Violet." She pops her gum at me, but smiles. I look away up at Mark who is almost out of sight. I stand up and go to the base of the trunk.

"Mark?" I call up to him. "You can come down now. I believe you can climb trees, okay?"

He looks down at me over his shoulder and slowly starts back in my direction. He's a few branches above me when the bell rings.

"Hurry it up, Four Eyes." He stops to glare down at me, then drops down beside me a few seconds later and brushes himself off.

"I totally win." He declares.

"Anyone can climb trees, Mark. I can do fucking gymnastics." I argue.

"Gymnastics are for girls." He teases but I don't take the bait.

"Well, maybe. But those girls are wicked fit and strong." I flex my arms to prove my point.

"You're fucking skinny, shut up." He says, waving to Violet as she leaves.

"You like her?" I ask him.

"She's alright. She explains geometry better than you."

"I think she's sort of weird." I admit, grabbing my stuff and following him toward the school.

"Only because she hasn't asked you to sleep with her yet. I guess you're just going to have to face that not everyone is your groupie." He nudges me.

I snort. "No, God. Trust me, I was feeling fine about that." Mark laughs at me and I shove him playfully as we part ways.

* * *

"Roger, you really need to stop getting into fights over the definition of supplementary angles." Mark tells me on Tuesday when we meet up at my locker after fourth period for lunch. "That was almost the whole class today."

"John is a fucking idiot. I don't care how smart everyone thinks he is, he sucks at Geometry. Someone needs to control him." I shove my history book in my locker and follow him down the hallway.

"How are you doing with the proofs? Do they make more sense?" I ask him.

"Yeah, thanks. I definitely got the last one wrong but I just totally don't understand perpendicular bisectors." He admits.

"Oh, well that's fun. All right, so if a point is on the perpendicular bisector of a segment then it's at an equal distance from both endpoints of that segment. So if you…"

"Hey, Violet." Mark says and I realize he's lead me out to the tree from yesterday and to the same blonde girl.

"You mind?" He asks. "Roger needs help explaining perpendicular bisectors."

She smiles. "Sure." She pulls out her book and guides Mark through the theorems from last nights homework while I amuse myself with handstands and prove that I can, in fact, do cartwheels and flips too.

"Cute." I eventually hear Violet say and Mark snorts.

"He's just showing off."

I walk on my hands over to them. "What was that, Marky?"

"Showoff." He grins, tossing a twig at me. I lower myself to the ground and lay down near them, eyes focused on the sky, watching the clouds overhead.

"Hey, you want to see my show this weekend?" I ask Mark. "I know you hate it, but I'd really like the feedback." I frown slightly. "Oh uh, you can come too, if you want." I offer to Violet. She finishes writing something on Mark's paper and takes out a fresh stick of gum.

"Sure, I didn't know you were in a band." She smiles. Mark throws me a pointed look and I shrug.

"Yeah, I'll go." Mark says. "But you know you're going to spend the next week regretting it."

"No way." I assure him. "You have no idea how great it is to get real criticism and to know someone agrees with me about Ryan."

"Guitar player?" He asks, furrowing his brow.

"Yeah. I guess I never told you his name. I have practice tonight and Thursday." I roll onto my back. "I'm not looking forward to it."

"Well, can you just unplug the bassist's amp or something? Because seriously, man." Mark says.

I laugh. "Too true. Chris is a pretty cool guy, but fuck. That can't be legal."

I look over at Violet. "What do you do? You never say anything."

She pulls a green apple of her bag and polishes it on her shirt and shrugs. "Whatever I feel like. I paint a lot." She bites a lip and blushes slightly. "I play bass sometimes."

"Oh yeah?" I ask, propping myself up. "You any good?"

"Yeah. I can't really read music, though. Just tabs, so I'm a bit limited." She smiles a little bit too much at my sudden interest.

"What style of music? Like, rock and stuff right? Since you're reading tab and not the music?"

She nods and crunches into her apple. I lay myself back down and file that information away.

"How long have you two been friends?" She asks us.

"Friends?" I ask, looking up at Mark. He shrugs, wearing a similar expression to mine. "Well, uh..."

"We sort of started hanging out last week by default." He tells her. "He likes me because I hate his band."

Violet looks very surprised. "Really? I mean, there's this well, dynamic, I guess. It just seems like you've been friends for years."

"Well, uh… we were on little league together." I grin to myself. "I don't know… why weren't we friends, Marky?"

He shrugs. "Want to be friends now?"

"Sure, man." I tell him, and go back to staring at the sky.

* * *

Thursday starts with Molly getting sick and insisting I stay home with her. As much as I would love to hang out with my little sister watching Disney movies and making her soup, I have too much shit to do in school. My mom decides to bring her with her to the gallery she owns and let her lie down in the back most of the day. She'll have Audrey for a limited amount of company, who almost always goes with Mom to work since she's only three.

My mom is one of my favourite people ever, and I love her a lot. She's a real artsy person, owning her own gallery and she does a lot of painting herself. I'm supposed to believe my dad was the same kind of person and that they were young and liberal and artsy together. But my mom got pregnant with me sort of young and Dad took a job at his father's company to support us. I know I'm supposed to understand that he did this for the best interest of my mom and I, but I can't help but think he sort of sold out. He's not a bad guy, even if he is distant. But there's better shit to do than be a corporate stiff, even if it pays the bills.

Mark and I cram for the Geometry test together while we skip gym. He's doing so much better thanks to me and Violet helping him during lunch. He's not stupid about math at all, it's just the proofs. They're a separate set of logic than most people are used to, so it's understandable.

"You both still coming to the show tomorrow night?" I ask them before Geometry. Mark nods grimly, staring intently at his notes.

"Do you want to both stay at my house after the show?" Violet asks. "It will be so late. We can make popcorn and stuff!" I raise my eyebrows, looking over at Mark.

"Yeah, sure." I shrug and Mark nods, still not looking at either of us. Violet goes back to her desk.

"You gonna be okay, man?" I ask Mark, his glasses sliding down his nose before he absently shoves them back in place.

"Great." He decides, putting his notes away and breathing again. "I think I got this."

* * *

"Hey, Roger!" I fumble to catch the drumstick thrown at me when I walk into Julian's garage.

"Hey, yourself. Where're the others?" I ask, tossing him back his drumstick. He starts a nice sounding beat while he talks, his mop of black hair moving with his head as he bobs it with the beat.

"Chris will be here soon, he's working. Ryan will be late, like always." He grins, and adds some cymbal.

I sit on the beaten up coach in the corner of the garage. "Great. The two who need the most practice."

"Aww, you're too hard on them, man." Julian says, always quick to defend his friends.

"Have you thought anymore about what I mentioned last week?" I ask him, taking advantage of the time we have alone.

He fidgets uncomfortably. "Well, yeah, I have. I know that Chris isn't the best out there and Ryan can be kind of a dick, but dude… they made this band."

"Well, fuck this band. Let's make our own band."

"I'd feel like a jerk, just leaving like that." He stops drumming for a moment.

"Do you want to do something with your talent or do you want to play the high school battle of the bands forever?" I ask him.

"You think we're good enough?"

"Not if we stay where we are." I tell him. "Honestly, Julian, we have a chance. You and me, man. If we find some other good people like us… we won't just have a bunch of slutty drunks as groupies, we'll have real fans."

He smiles fondly. "That'd be nice." He sighs. "I'll think about it, Roger, okay?"

* * *

I yawn and stretch when I walk through the front door, tossing my bag on the ground and heading to the kitchen. I'm met halfway by a small woman with long, curly light brown hair. She still has her painting clothes on and she hands me a mug.

"Mom, I told you not to wait up. It's 2 am." I smile at her, collapsing on the couch with the hot chocolate.

"How was rehearsal?" She asks, taking the other end of the couch and pulling a blanket around her shoulders.

I shake my head. "I'm so sick of Ryan's bullshit. I'm so much better than him but it's like, _his_ band, you know?"

She nods sympathetically, smiling at me. "Poor baby."

I roll my eyes. "Aw, Mom, don't."

She moves closer and nudges me. "You'll always be my baby."

"I know." I grin, despite myself. "Love ya, Mom."

"Love you too. Have you made any friends this year?"

I shrug. "Well, there's this one kid, Mark. We've been hanging out." I smirk. "We just decided to be friends today because of this girl."

My mom raises her eyebrows suggestively. "A girl?" She teases me and I roll my eyes.

"No way, not like that. She just said that she thought we'd been friends for a really long time and so we just decided to be friends."

"Good for you, Roger." She says. "You need some real friends."

"I have friends, mom." I protest, but once I think about it, I really don't. I have the guys in the band, and a few random school acquaintances. I smile to myself.

"Can I come see your show this weekend?" She asks. I make a face.

"No, God Mom, you don't want to see it. We suck."

"Aww, I want to see you play." She says. "You never let me come to your shows."

"Do you really want to bump and grind with a bunch of stoned teenagers?"

She makes a face and laughs with me. "Well let me know when I can go. I want to see you play, Roger." She stands up and tosses the blanket over at me. "I'm going to bed. Love you." She leans over and kisses me on the forehead.

I wrinkle my nose at her and smile. "Night Mom, love you too."


	4. Car Rides and Cover Songs

**Disclaimer:** I don't own RENT.

**Author's Note:** I've been busy with finals. Sorry for the delay, it shouldn't bethis long again unless Iget crazy busy for some reason.Hope you enjoy. Don't get scared at the end of this chapter. It will totally be M/R eventually.

This story will contain a female OC. She will be a main character. She also will **not be** "involved" with either Mark or Roger. Ever. She's there to bring them together and be cute. Seriously, we promise. She won't boink the boys.

**I Found a Reason  
Chapter Four _–_**_ Car Rides and Cover Songs  
_**Mark's POV**

I toss my bag off as soon as I walk through the door and make for the fridge. I shift around a few containers, hoping for something good.

"Mark, I made you a sandwich already." My mother says from the doorway, pointing toward the table.

Gratefully, I close the fridge. "Thanks, Mom."

She comes over and sits across from me, watching me eat.

"How was school?" She asks, smiling. She reaches across the table to fix my hair and I bat her away.

"My hair's fine. School was fine."

"Well, what did you do that was 'fine'?"

I shrug. "Nothing."

"Cindy used to say the same thing everyday, you know." She smiles again then frowns. "I hope she's doing all right in college. She never calls."

"I'm sure she's just too busy getting trashed and neglecting her schoolwork." I mean to be joking but my mother looks scandalized so I roll my eyes. "I'm just kidding, Mom. It's Cindy. You know she's fine."

Mom looks vaguely reassured. "Are you doing anything this weekend?"

"Actually, yeah. I'm going out tonight and then I'm staying at…Oh." I bite my lip and reconsider. "Um, I'm staying at Roger's house."

Her brow furrows and she tilts her head in thought, pulling her sweater tighter around her. "Who's Roger?"

"You know Roger, Mom. We did Little League together." I pick up the other half of the sandwich, hoping Little League is a redeeming quality.

"I didn't know you were still friends. Why haven't you ever mentioned him?" She asks.

I shrug. "We were kind of 'school-friends', you know? I'm going to see his band play tonight and I'm just going to stay at his house since we'll be getting back late."

Mom doesn't seem too pleased at the idea of me sleeping at the house of strange boy, so it's immediately for the best I stopped myself from telling her that me and Roger are actually staying with some strange girl. Suggesting a co-ed sleepover might just get me grounded.

"I got an A in Geometry today, Mom, because Roger helped me study. Want to see?" I go find the bag I tossed aside and pull out the test we got back during class today. Mom looks skeptical at first, but eventually smiles.

"So he's a smart boy like you? What kind of music does his band play?" She asks, flipping the test over to look at the back and frowning at the one problem I got wrong.

"Umm, rock? It's pretty clean, I guess." Not exactly the truest sentiment, but something Mom will go for.

She flips the test over and goes to stick it on the fridge. I roll my eyes. "Oh Mom, don't." She ignores me, of course.

"Well, all right." She says, taking my plate. "Go and have fun. Call me when you get to Roger's house."

"Mom, it's going to be really late." I argue, caring more that I'll have to admit to Roger and Violet that I have to call my mommy to let her know I haven't been kicked to death at the punk show.

"I don't care if you wake me up, but I'll worry all night if you don't call." She crosses her arms.

Great, she brought out the guilt trip. "Fine, I'll call you when I get there." Maybe I can sneak a phone call or something.

Mom looks satisfied and comes to give me a hug and covertly reaches out to fix my hair. "Do your homework before you go."

I roll my eyes again, hugging her for minute and then reaching for my bag. "I will, thanks."

I head up the stairs to my room and set my bag on my bed before going to my closet to take out my most recent box of photos. I open it and pull myself up onto my bed to get into my bag to retrieve the new Polaroid shots from the past couple days.

The most recent roll of film I used, I had found under my bed. It must have been at least a couple years old and it was pretty damaged, but I decided to try to use it anyway. The pictures came out faded and pinkish yellow, some of them looking burned at the edges. They actually look pretty fucking cool. I wish I could buy film that would look like this, and I suddenly wish I had conserved this roll. There are mostly just random shots of people I thought looked interesting that I took outside of school, though I got a few great ones of Roger. One taken right after he fell on his ass at lunch today after trying to climb the tree just to prove he could. He's frowning miserably, sitting with his knees up and his arms crossed over them, glaring up at me. The other was from today as well, when Violet asked him what his fans were like. Half of the photograph is Violet tilting her head with a smile having just asked the question and the other half is Roger looking put out and scowling.

There's a great one I took of a couple kissing earlier in the week. I saw them while I walking home from school and tried to be as inconspicuous as possible, ducking behind a tree to take a picture of a clean cut guy kissing a girl goodbye who would have looked far more in place getting smashed at a punk show in the city than smiling at her boyfriend in front of a nice house in Scarsdale. There were actually a few moments involved in that exchange I wish I could have preserved. Sometimes photographs don't do some situations justice.

I toss these pictures and the others I took into the box and put it in my closet with the others and find a new roll of film for my Polaroid. I know it's stupid and expensive to use a Polaroid camera, especially since the photos aren't always the best quality, but it's my favourite type of camera to use and I can afford it, so whatever.

I pass some time by doing my Chemistry homework after staring blankly at my History assignment. I'm sure it's entirely possible some people think 3 points is a good reason to do what will probably be nearly 4 hours of work when I get around to doing it, but I certainly don't. Looks like Sunday night will be eventful.

Around 8:30 I shove my books off of my bed and go to the closet again to find something to wear tonight. I'm not really all the concerned about looking "cool" or something, but I want to blend in a little more than last time. I decide to keep my cords on and just change into one of my band shirts. Devo is pretty unassuming, so I go with that. I head to the bathroom to run a hand through my shaggy hair before shrugging and cleaning my glasses on my shirt. I grab my toothbrush and shove some clothes and my camera into my bag before picking up my keys and heading out to my car. I call a goodbye to my mother as I hurry out the door.

I feel kind of awkward staying the night at Violet's house, half because she's a girl, half because I feel like I barely know her. But Roger's going too be there too and I'll stick with him if weirdness ensues. When I finally reach her house, she was right the other day when she said she lived really close to the club. It's only a couple miles from her house and I'll admit, a much closer drive to worry about after the show.

I hate this part of hanging out with people. I park in front of her house and head up to the door. Ringing doorbells makes me paranoid, and I'm silently praying she's ready and I don't have to sit around with parents or siblings while I wait. My finger is in position above the doorbell but before I can do anything the door opens and a tall, thin blonde woman opens the door and grins down at me.

"Hey cutie, are you Mark?" She leans against the doorframe.

I stare at her, resisting the urge to raise an eyebrow and back away. "Umm, yeah. Is, uh… Violet here?"

She moves back and pulls me by the hand into the house. "I was just heading out, I'll be gone until late. Daisy is at a friends house tonight, but I just went shopping today so there's plenty of food and you can call me if you need anything." She winks at me and I take a step to the side.

"Great." I smile nervously.

"Is it your band playing tonight? You look like a little rockstar." She sits on the couch and crosses her legs.

This time I do raise an eyebrow. "No, it's our friend Roger."

"Is he as cute as you?" She grins, thinking she's teasing. I need Violet to hurry the hell up right now.

To my extreme relief she's already rushing down the stairs, pulling on a sweater over her t-shirt and zipping it up. She smiles and surprises me with a small hug before practically pushing me out the door and waving at her mother.

"What's with your mom?" I ask her, unlocking the passenger door for her.

Violet rolls her eyes with a little smile and pulls out a stick of gum, offering one to me too. "Ignore her, she thinks she's young. She won't be around tonight."

"I thought it was like, your sister at first. Who's Daisy?" I ask her, heading over to my side of the car.

"My sister. And don't even say it, I know naming your kids after flowers is lame."

I slide into the car and push the B-52s tape back in after I start it. Violet stares at me when I start singing to 'Rock Lobster'. I feel myself blushing. I'm usually alone in my car and no one witnesses my off-key renditions of my favourite songs. While I'm busy feeling like a complete idiot for forgetting I wasn't alone, she starts singing too. I start feeling a little bit less like I'm going to have to do whatever I can to not look like weird in front of strangers tonight and more like I should just be having fun. But I didn't bring any sort of ear plugs. So I won't really be having too much fun.

Roger is outside of the club leaning against the wall, smoking, wearing tight clothes and newly gelled hair. He waves absently and heads over to my car.

"Mind if I shove this in here now?" He asks, tossing a bag into my backseat before he's even finished talking.

"Yeah, go ahead." I lock my doors and follow him and Violet to the club.

"We go on in about twenty minutes." He says, looking tense and slightly irritated. "The band that's on now is pretty fucking good, I've never heard them before. They're only an opening group and they're so much fucking better." He drops the cigarette and crushes it out under his shoe, before crossing his thin arms and leaning against the wall again.

"It's pretty empty right now, you should head in," He sighs. "It won't fill up until at least 10:00. If you want to just get a table and chill, now's your chance."

"Are you okay?" Violet asks him. He shrugs and makes a face.

"I know the show is fine. But that's all it is. It's fine." He says vaguely and then heads away back to the stage door.

I shrug at Violet. She frowns and looks around for the door. Pulling on my sleeve she leads me over and we each shell out our $5. Roger was right, the club is pretty empty. At first impression I don't think the opening band is as good as he thinks. At least their singer is no match for him, but at least both members of their rhythm section keep it together and their guitar player doesn't try to add a bunch of riffs to show off that make him look like a complete ass when he can't finish them off cleanly.

We score a table near the back after securing some drinks. Violet would have preferred to be closer to the stage but after the last show, I severely learned my lesson. Roger's high school fans like to rush the stage and shove each other. We'd be safer a bit further back. Violet picks up one of the flyers on our table and sips her Coke while reading it.

"What the fuck is an Alchemy's Revenge?" She demands, squinting as if she'd read it wrong.

I snort. "It's the name of Roger's band." She looks up in surprise and almost spits out her drink before dissolving into giggles and I have to join her, glad to finally have someone to revel in the ridiculousness of it all with.

Violet makes me tell her about the last show while the other band is packing up and I try to prepare her mostly for the excess noise and the other audience members who are finally starting to filter in. In the fifteen minutes we've been inside the audience has already tripled and it looks like more are coming.

The odd thing about suburban rock is the audience. If you ask any of them why they go they'll always say it's "for the music". I happen to think it's a load of shit. Most of them just want to hang out with the bands and feel cool for going to rock shows. Most people in our high school will say they listen to "everything" if you ask them what music they like. Which boils down to the fact that they don't listen to much of anything besides what's accessible and have no real judgment or opinions about most music. And yeah, I talk a big game but in reality I know nothing about music and couldn't tell the difference between an A Major scale and someone banging a bunch of random notes on a piano. But I know that and I'll admit it. I know what I like and I know what I definitely don't. Which is more than I can say for a lot of the people flashing fake IDs at the bartender.

Finally, a full twenty minutes later than Roger said, his band takes the stage. Immediately I recognize the crazy grin he had last time I saw him play and a different sort of swagger to the way he moves around onstage than his usual gait. Roger sweet talks the audience for a minute, asking them if they're ready to party. I want to know if his band told him what to say or not. It definitely doesn't sound like anything Roger would come up with on his own.

Ryan, the big and hard looking guitar player glances back at the dark-haired drummer who sighs but counts off and then sits back, looking bored. When Ryan starts playing I can't do a damn thing but stare. Roger is visibly surprised and turns away from the audience.

"Who the fuck _opens_ a show with 'Stairway To Heaven'?" I find myself almost yelling, but I'm covered up by a bunch of girls screaming at Roger who tries to cover up his disbelief with a confident grin.

Violet hears me, though, and laughs off-handedly. "Who the fuck _plays_ 'Stairway to Heaven' at a show?"

Roger looks furious, I can tell he wasn't exactly planning on doing this song, at least not now and it's obvious the drummer feels the same way. He's twirling his drumsticks absently, apparently having been told to sit out. Ryan glares up at Roger who closes his eyes in frustration but gets through the first verse. Ryan keeps playing, but Roger looks back at the drummer and shakes his head and mouths something at him. Roger gets the bass player too and the drummer counts off and starts up a new beat.

"Blitzkreig!" He shouts at Ryan, who immediately switches songs, unable to keep going with his rhythm section starting in on a completely different song, but turns red in the process. The mood of the audience picks up and they start jumping when Roger shouts "hey ho, let's go" at them.

"They pick the most obvious cover songs." I moan, downing the last of my coke and watching the kids in front of us dance.

"Oh come on, it's not that bad." Violet says, nudging me. "Roger spared us from Stairway. Let's be optimistic."

They move from 'Blitzkreig Bop' to what sounds like a couple shitty original songs I pray Roger had nothing to do with to 'Police and Thieves' and after that proceed to play about five more Clash songs.

"They should at least spread them out if they're going to do this many from one band." I insist.

Violet is on her third Coke and has started tapping her shoe against her chair and drumming her fingertips on the table, getting bored of sitting. "We should go dance." She decides.

"You're fucking kidding." I cross my arms and lean back in my chair, refusing to budge and join the sea of followers bobbing along to the steady drum beat.

"Yeah, they're not the greatest band ever, but whatever. You can sit there like a jerk or we can dance and try to have fun." She's already up, talking as she dances in front of the table to 'God Save The Queen'.

I finish off my drink and join her. Biting back a comment about the bass line not being at all in sync with the rest of the group, I acknowledge they at least they switched to a new band to cover from.

I'm not much of a dancer, but neither is Violet, so we jump around near the back of the crowd, still staying out of what could possibly become a moshing situation. I didn't think that was legal, but no one in charge seems to mind and all the kids in the middle of the moving group seem to be pretty thrilled, so whatever. I have to admit though, that it is infinitely more fun to do something than just sit there and waste my money on Coke I don't really want to drink. So I bring out my dance moves and try to make the best of it.

The band takes a short break after they play "Anarchy in the UK". I can't resist going off on a bit of a rant and again insisting to Violet that they cover the most obvious songs.

"What the fuck kind of relevance does "God Save the Queen" have this side of the ocean, anyway?" I demand, taking a seat and pulling my camera out, intent upon getting a few more shots of the band for Roger and some random shots of the club and the audience for myself.

"I don't think the point is the relevance." Violet says, then shrugs. "I don't think there is a point. They're not _that_ bad."

They come back with a few more original songs, one the audience particularly seems to enjoy and then finish up the show with another Sex Pistols song and what even I have to admit isn't a particularly bad version of The Dead Milkmen's 'Punk Rock Girl'. They played it louder and faster than the original and the bass player was the most on he'd been all night. Roger had picked up a guitar to double Ryan's playing, which the crowd loved. Even though Ryan killed the solo by playing too fast for his own fingers, it was a good song to end the show on.

We head outside, and I'm relieved by contact with the clean and unsmoky air that feels good after jumping around sweaty from dancing in a crowded club all night. We stand off to the side to wait for Roger and avoid the girls gathering around by the stage door.

"They're kind of a big deal, I guess?" Violet asks me, pulling her sweater back on and stepping back to avoid being knocked over by a girl in a hurry to find her friends.

I shrug and push my glasses up on my nose, they've been sliding down all night since I've been sweating in the club. "What else is there to do? Might as well try to get in with the local punk band."

The band finally heads out, Roger helping the dark-haired drummer load up his van. Roger punches him in the arm and the drummer grins back at him and waves him away.

"The drummer is pretty cute." Violet says, giggling approvingly and watching him finish packing up and get into his van.

"Uh, yeah. Definitely." I joke, waving at Roger when I see him looking for us. He nods and stops to talk with a couple girls who corner him. One moves a little too close for his liking and he pats her on the shoulder and backs away before thanking both of them and heading toward us quickly to get away before anyone else stopped him. He stops in front of me and looks at me expectantly.

"It was umm. Well," I start and stop to think. "It was better than last time." I offer. He snorts and rolls his eyes. Violet reaches out to give him a hug. He stares at me over her shoulder, and I almost laugh out loud before he pats her back quickly and moves away.

"Well, I had fun." She tells him and we start heading for my car. I touch his arm as he's stalking away from me with a sour expression, sweat and hairgel running down his face. I can tell he's not happy with how it went.

"Hey,_ you_ were good." I tell him. "Especially trying to save the opening song." Roger immediately launches into a full out rant about Ryan trying to convince them it was a good idea and knowing it was stupid and how he was overruled because it's 'Ryan's band'. I keep my hand on his arm and let him talk as we walk to my car where he lays down in the backseat despite my urging for him to put a seatbelt on.

"Just drive, Mark. Shut up." He moans, coming down from his high from the show and lighting a cigarette. I consider telling him off for smoking in my car without at least asking, but think better of it and let him be.

* * *

The first thing Roger does when we get to Violet's house is crash on her couch and take a nap. So much for sticking with Roger if I felt awkward. I head to the kitchen with Violet and help her pull out a few bags of popcorn and take a can of Coke from her fridge. I feel a lot better about drinking a shitload of soda when I'm not paying four bucks for a small little cup. After only ten minutes, Roger is in the kitchen with us, shotgunning soda and looking very much awake.

"Hey, can I use your phone? I have to call my mom." Roger asks Violet, who nods. I watch Roger dial and realize I was supposed to call my mother too, and suddenly don't feel like a loser for needing to. It's not like Roger is going to make fun of me for it.

"Can I use it after Roger? I need to call my mom too." I admit and Violet throws a piece of popcorn at me.

"Aww, you guys are cute." She teases and I shrug and try not to blush.

Roger plops himself in a chair and puts a foot up on another and smiles idly while he talks, running a hand through his hair.

"Yeah, Mom. No, it was okay. No, seriously, be glad you didn't go. Aww yeah, hey Molly. What are you doing up?" His smile gets a little bit bigger. "Go to bed, little girl. Yeah, yeah. Sure, Mom. Love you too." He grins at me and pulls himself up, handing me the phone and patting my shoulder.

I call my mom, who sounds half dead when she picks up the phone but is very pleased I remembered to call. Roger is searching through the fridge. He pulls out a container and opens one side and sniffs it warily before pulling back abruptly and throwing a shocked look at Violet.

"What the fuck is this?" She takes it and opens it up all the way. A mess of noodles, vegetables and colour stares out at us.

"It's just some sort of casserole my mom tried to make. It wasn't very good." Violet says, making a face and closing it back up.

"Sick." Roger says as I'm hanging up the phone. "Hey Mark, check this out." He takes the container from Violet and thrusts it at me.

"Ew, don't." I push it back toward him. "I don't want it."

Roger smiles one of his wicked smiles and pushes it back to me. "I dare you to eat it."

"No way, you do it." I say, crossing my arms and taking a step back. Roger can be so disgusting when he wants to be.

"You're such a girl, Mark." Roger teases and turns to Violet "Give me a fork."

I frown, not wanting Roger to think I'm a girl, but also not wanting to eat whatever is growing in the container. What the hell does being able to stomach eating nasty shit have to do with masculinity? And why the fuck do I care, anyway? He can go ahead and get sick and barf. Then Roger grins smugly at me and I bite my lip angrily.

"Give me one too." And Violet grabs me a fork, which I reluctantly take. Roger opens the container again and sets it between us on the table.

"I bet I can eat more of it." Roger says immediately, staring down into the mess.

"Yeah well, I bet I won't throw it up later." I challenge him, digging for something I might beat him at.

Roger grins again. "Do you have like, ketchup and shit?" He asks Violet, getting up and opening the fridge again. "We need to make this interesting. Since Marky wants to add "not throwing it up" to our criteria."

"Sick, Roger, no." I protest, feeling sicker by the minute watching him dig through the fridge and pull out a few condiments.

"Girl." He grins, turning to me while he squeezes out some ketchup and mustard and squirts a lump of salad dressing in as well.

Violet wrinkles her nose when Roger grabs a jar of pickles and drops a few on top of the casserole. That does it for me.

"I'm not eating this, Roger." I say, setting down my fork and feeling sick. So much for my masculinity. I laugh to cover up my frustration. "But I still dare you to. And you can't throw it up."

Roger shrugs indifferent. "Fine." He mixes up the contents of the container and takes a big bite without even cringing. Violet looks slightly ill but giggles when he looks pensive for a moment and then declares that it needs more Ranch.

Roger picks up his soda and we head back toward the couches while he continues to munch away somewhat happily on his dare. Violet curls up one end of the couch and I take the other. Roger sits on the floor against the couch across from us, balancing the container on his knees and looking lost in thought.

"Ryan is such a fucking jerk." He finally declares, frowning. "I can't believe how full of himself he is." He eats more and then grins, as if a brilliant thought has struck him.

"Hey Mark, prank call Ryan for me." He says, tossing a pillow at me.

I roll my eyes and toss the pillow back. "Fuck you, make your own prank calls."

"Stop being lame, you won't do anything tonight." Roger teases. "Besides, he'd recognize my voice. You do it."

He waits for me to agree and when I don't he looks over at Violet. She stares back at him and he shrugs. "You wanna do it? Call Ryan and…" He stops eating and thinks for minute before laughing and digging the fork into the casserole again. "Call him and tell him you're Kelly, his ex, and then," he laughs again. "Tell him you're pregnant."

"Roger, you're terrible." I protest, but I'm still somewhat amused.

"He made me sing part of 'Stairway to Heaven'," Roger snaps. "He deserves it."

Violet shrugs and reaches for the phone. She smile expectantly at Roger "What's his number?"

Listening to Violet fake a few tears and announce her pregnancy to Ryan makes Roger laugh so hard he has to go back in the kitchen for fear of Ryan hearing him. When he returns, Violet is hanging up and he's dumped his bowl somewhere. He flops onto the couch between us and grins at Violet.

"Hey, you didn't finish your dare. Where's your casserole?" I demand, pushing on his shoulder.

"I finished it," he insists. "So give me a new one." He crosses his arms and waits, watching me.

"Fine, uh… I dare you to let Violet put makeup on you." I challenge, looking over at the girl who giggles and goes for her purse.

Roger pouts for a moment, then shrugs, not wanting to back down, though I get the impression that being given a makeover doesn't really phase him that much. "Whatever," he says, moving to the floor. "Bring it on."

"You have to keep it on for at least an hour so I can laugh at you." I add, hoping to bruise his ego somehow, but he only shrugs again.

Violet turns up the light in the room and kneels in front of Roger who makes a face and closes his eyes before she sweeps some dark eyeshadow over his eyelids.

"Full face?" She asks me, pulling out some blush and a brush.

"Of course." I grab another soda and stick another bag of popcorn in the microwave. I spot a few bags of chips next to the fridge and I bring those back to the other room.

It's ridiculous how Roger manages to still look ridiculously masculine with a full face of makeup. He also seems so nonplussed about it that I want to continue our challenges just for a chance to get him riled up about something.

"So Mark, Truth or Dare." He asks after a few more minutes while Violet caps her mascara. He moves to lay down on his stomach.

I frown at making the game official, and don't want to know what kind of dares Roger has for me. Especially while he's smiling up at me like that. I go with 'truth'.

"So, who do you think about when you masturbate?" Roger asks, grinning and looking interested. Violet snorts into her Coke.

I sigh, knowing I should have known. It's Roger after all. I try to think of the least embarrassing person.

"Winona Ryder." I sigh. "Truth or Dare?"

He looks like he's going to say something and then seems to consider for minute. Finally he just shrugs and goes with 'truth' as well. I want to hit him with the same question but it feels too lame to repeat his so I play nice, hoping for a chance to get him later.

"How many girls have you kissed?" I ask him, then realize there's no way I have him beat and if he asks me back I'll look like such a virgin.

"One." He says without a thought, taking a handful of popcorn.

I sit up and stare down at him. Even Violet looks vaguely surprised. "One?"

"Yeah, one. What?" He demands, suddenly a bit defensive. "How many girls have you kissed?"

"Four." I tell him, sitting back and feeling slightly more confident than before.

"Slut." He grins, forgetting his defensiveness. "Anyone I know?"

"No, I doubt it." I shrug. "Well, Nanette. But the rest were at like, Dad's company picnics or girls I knew from temple."

He nods and considers, then laughs under his breath and looks up again. "And you kissed them all like, what? Once or twice each?" He asks.

"Yeah, so?" I say, crossing my arms again.

"Well, mine was my girlfriend for a whole summer. So I have a whole summer of kissing. So I win." He decides.

I snort indignantly. "How exactly do you win?"

Roger rolls onto his back and looks up at me, taking pleasure in my annoyance. "It's quality, not quantity," he reasons. "And I've got you beat on quantity too, actually, if we're just talking number of kisses in general."

"Wait. Are we competing over who's done more kissing in general or who's kisses count more?" I counter, attempting to follow his logic and annoyed at letting my testosterone get the better of me by letting him drag me into this fight in the first place.

Violet giggles and Roger looks up at her. "How many girls have you kissed?" He demands, then laughs softly. "Uh, boys, I mean. Unless…"

Violet smiles. "None."

I squint at her. "But you said you went out with uh, whatshisname. Brian?"

Violet shrugs and wrinkles her nose. "Would you want to kiss him? Besides, he's a total closet case. I can tell." She says with a knowing wink.

Roger raises his eyebrows. "No way, Brian? Huh." He grabs more popcorn then turns back to Violet. "You have any more food?"

"Pizza?" Violet asks, getting up.

We share a nod and Roger calls an affirmative to her and pulls himself up and waits for me to follow him. He pushes me good-naturedly when I'm standing next to him.

I steady myself and turn back to him. "I dare you to kiss Violet." I challenge, intent upon teasing him a bit more.

Roger looks shocked. "No way. I dare you."

"You need to up your kiss count." I tease, nudging him.

"You _like_ her." He says, pushing me. I raise my eyebrows.

"I do not, you asshole. You should, come on, I dare you."

Violet is holding two different pizzas and staring at us. I had thought she was still in the kitchen.

"Well, as tempting as that offer is, boys," She says jokingly. "I think I'll pass. Pepperoni or vegetable?"

Roger grins awkwardly and points at the pepperoni, shoving me playfully again on the way into the kitchen.


	5. Cheeseless Pizza and Cartoon Communists

**Disclaimer:** I don't own RENT.

**Author's Note:** Special thanks to Jade (neonnchrome1123) for taking some pictures of a specific board game for us. She's my hero for the week. Thanks for the reviews.

This story will contain a female OC. She will be a main character. She also will **not be** "involved" with either Mark or Roger. Ever. She's there to bring them together and be cute. Seriously, we promise. She won't boink the boys.

**I Found a Reason  
Chapter Five _–_**_ Cheeseless Pizza and Cartoon Communists  
_**Roger's POV**

Violet goes to put the pizza in the oven and I drop into a chair and put my feet up on another. Mark shoves my feet off of the other chair and sits down. Unfazed, I lift my feet up again and put them in his lap. He rolls his eyes and shoves them off again. I wait until he asks Violet when her mom is getting home before I put them back up and this time he throws me an odd look but doesn't say or do anything. Convinced I've won, I settle back in my chair and get comfortable.

Violet shrugs, finding some plates. "Another hour or two, maybe. I'm not sure." I watch Mark look noticeably uncomfortable for a moment before Violet winks at him. "We'll just eat in my room, it's big enough. You don't have to see her."

"What's wrong with your mom?" I ask her, poking Mark in the stomach with the toe of my shoe. He pushes my feet off and crosses his arms.

"She's um… friendly." Violet says jokingly, checking on the pizza and turning up the heat on the oven.

Mark frowns but doesn't say anything and I feel like I've missed out on something. I shrug and crush my Coke can with my hands and take another, snapping my fingers at Mark to get his attention and tossing him one too. He snaps it open and I drop down in the chair next to him again. Violet pulls up a third after setting a timer for the pizza.

"Hey I saw you with your camera at the show, did you take any pictures?" I ask Mark, watching him brighten slightly at the mention of his photography.

"Yeah, some more of the band and then some other stuff too. Almost a whole roll," he smiles. "Want to see them?" He asks almost shyly.

I reach over and punch him in the arm. "Yeah, duh. Go get your bag. I better have at least _looked _good on stage."

Mark is such a dork over his cameras. He won't readily admit how attached he is to taking pictures of things and sometimes when I ask him about photography he'll get almost cagey and insist that it's just a hobby. But he always has some sort of camera on him and the front pocket of his bag is always full of recent Polaroids.

Sure enough, when Mark drops his bag on the table he flips open the front pocket and pulls out a stack of photos and hands them to me, smiling somewhat proudly.

"The lighting kind of sucked so some didn't really turn out. Keep whatever you want, though. There're some good ones too." He offers. Violet scoots her chair over closer to look over my shoulder.

Every third photo or so is a crappy shot with either not enough light or motion blurs throughout the picture, but Mark is right, some of them are really good. I turn over one picture that had been put in the pile upside down and think that I might need to reconsider the pants I'm wearing next time. I don't think they're tight enough.

There are a group of pictures of audience members jumping against each other and screaming or clapping. They all look so happy I can't help but smile. Most of them might have just been there because the bartender doesn't really give a crap who's underage or who isn't, but at least they were having fun at my show.

I sift through the shots of me onstage and the band and the audience and come across one of Violet dancing and two of her and Mark, presumably taken with Mark holding the camera out in front of them in the middle of the dance floor. I pull out a couple of band shots and one of Mark and Violet.

"I'm taking these, okay?" I ask, holding up the photos absently. Mark nods with a smile and takes the stack when I hand it back to him, shoving them back into his bag.

I examine the photos again while the timer goes off and Violet gets up to check on the pizza.

"What do you do with all the pictures?" I ask him. "You keep them all?"

Mark nods again. "Yeah."

I kick him under the table. "I wanna see them sometime." I tell him.

To my surprise he starts laughing.

"What?" I ask, bewildered. Violet turns from the oven to stare at him.

He snorts. "Sorry. It's just hard to take you seriously when you're wearing blush."

"Was that a delayed reaction or what? The makeup isn't exactly a new development, Marky." I tease him, realizing that I do probably look ridiculous, but not really caring. It's not like my little sisters haven't given me makeovers before. I shrug. "I'll wash it off later. Then we can have serious discussions without you laughing at me."

Mark laughs again, and takes the plate Violet hands him, immediately peeling off the slices of pepperoni.

"What are you doing?" I can't help asking. "That's the best part."

Mark shrugs. "I don't really eat meat." His pepperoni is now lumped in a neat little pile on the edge of the plate. I reach over and steal it and add it to my own slices of pizza. I turn to Violet.

"Can you believe that… what are _you_ doing?" Violet is peeling off not just the pepperoni but the cheese as well.

"Lactose intolerant." She grins and offers her plate to me. I take her cheese cautiously and continue to build onto my pizza.

"What is wrong with you? You're ruining the best food on the planet." I tell them both. They shrug almost in unison.

"What does it matter to you? You get our extras." Mark points out, getting up to follow Violet who had grabbed a few more cans of Coke and was headed out of the kitchen. Realizing that I did in fact benefit from this new development, I let it go, grabbing my bag and following them to Violet's room.

Her room does turn out to be big. Really big, actually. But pretty much everyone I know is fairly well off, so that doesn't come as a surprise. There is a lot of pink and a door leading off to what looks like an attached bathroom. I grab a spot on the floor leaning against the little couch next to Mark. We take a conversation break to eat a little bit, and I realize how hungry I am, even after all the popcorn and the mystery casserole.

I stare around Violet's room some more. I catch sight of some board games tucked away on a shelf across the room and I scan them, looking for something familiar.

"Hey," I say, getting up and going across the room to grab one of the boxes. "We're playing Guess Who."

Violet laughs and takes another bite of her cheeseless pizza. Mark frowns.

"What is that?"

I start pulling the game out and flicking open the little picture squares. "It's the best game ever, Mark. I play it with Molly all the time. Haven't you ever played this?"

He picks up one of the boards and peers down intently at the people on the flaps. "No…"

"He can be on your team then. He's not going to be much help anyway." I tell Violet.

"How much skill can this game possibly take?" Mark demands, pretending to be annoyed.

I shrug. "Maybe you'll be a natural. Pick a person."

Violet sifts through the cards of the people, nudges Mark and shows him a card, then smiles at me.

"Is it a girl?" I ask, scanning over the familiar faces.

"Yeah." Mark says, watching me.

I smirk. Guessing girls is easy. "Is she hot?"

Mark furrows his brow. "Umm, I guess?" Violet giggles.

"It's Maria." I declare, and Mark frowns. I grin at him. "Don't pick the girls, the guys are so much harder to figure out."

I go with Charles for them and after about 5 minutes of obvious questions and painful guessing I give up.

"C'mon. He looks like a seventies porn star." I tell them.

"Herman?" Mark guesses hopefully.

"No, Herman is the peeping tom." I roll my eyes. "And we said he was blond, remember? How can someone be this bad at Guess Who?"

"Oh, it's Charles." Says Violet, pointing. She flips their board over so the people are upright again and then pokes through the cards with Mark to pick a new person. They set up their card and wait for me to start guessing. After a minute I've discovered that it's a guy wearing a hat.

"Does he look like a Communist?" I ask, trying to decide between Bernard, Eric or George.

"You play this game with your little sister?" Mark asks, while Violet giggles and nods an affirmative to my question.

I grin. "Well, yeah. But when I play with her I have to be nice. And it's Bernard."

I go with Claire to give them a break. Mark asks if she's old or young and Violet asks if she's wearing a hat.

"So is she umm… ugly?" Mark tries and I laugh at him.

"You're going to call the sweet old lady wearing a hat ugly? You're such a jerk, Mark." I tease. "And no, she just looks like someone's nice old aunt or something."

"Claire." Mark says, with a small proud smile. I flip over my board. I figure out I'm looking for a guy without a hat. After a few minutes of play, I sort through my options.

"Does he look like a child molester?" I ask. Mark exchanges a look with Violet, then shrugs. I leave Alfred with a maybe.

"How about a misogynist?" Violet shakes her head. That rules out Peter.

I inquire about hair colour and find out my person has dark hair. That leaves me with Robert and Tom. The absentee father and the streaker.

"Glasses?" I ask and Mark says no, and I'm left with Robert. I grin and push my board to the side.

"That's a lot more fun than Molly asking if he 'looks like daddy' every time." I tell them. "But I'm done." I yawn, betraying that I'm getting tired.

Violet pushes their board aside as well with a smile. "I'm going to put my pajamas on. We can watch a movie or something and crash. I'm tired too." She points absently over at her movie shelves and goes into her closet for a minute and then into the bathroom attached to her room and closes the door.

"I'm changing too." Mark says, opening his bag and I nod and reach for mine and pull out the plaid flannel pants I sleep in. With a hesitant look at Violet's closed bathroom door I peel off my jeans and pull on the flannel pants in time to catch Mark pulling his pajama shirt over his head.

"Whoa, whoa. Wait." I laugh, reaching out and almost falling with the pants only around my knees. I stop for a moment and pull them all the way up and then try again, grabbing Mark's shoulder and turning him around.

"Oh my God. You are such a dork." I tease him and he raises his eyebrow and smirks a little bit. Mark has full out Star Wars pajamas, with the logo and a picture of Han Solo and Chewbacca across his chest. He crosses his arms and silently dares me to tease him some more, his eyebrow cocked upward and a playful smile still on his face.

"Hey, Luke," I grin so he knows I'm only joking. "Nice pajamas. Save any galaxies recently?"

He smiles and turns away to shove his clothes into his bag. I wander over to the movies and grin to myself. Mark is such a weird kid, but it's really cool. I know he's constantly trying to one-up me and occasionally frets about looking cool, but then he wears Star Wars pajamas just to be eccentric. And probably just because he can. I notice Violet actually owns Star Wars and for a moment I'm tempted to insist we watch The Empire Strikes Back, but I'm not really in the mood for it so I'd only be watching it to take another playful shot at Mark.

She also owns a couple Monty Python movies, which is more like what I was hoping for, so I pull out Holy Grail and toss it at Mark. He laughs and nods in agreement as Violet comes out of the bathroom in shorts and a shirt.

"You can take your makeup off, Roger, I have remover." She says, and I gesture to Mark and he grabs his camera and follows me into her bathroom. Mark pulls himself up onto the long counter and Violet hands me the bottle. I put some on some Kleenex and rub at my cheeks, turning to watch myself in the mirror. I scrub off the blush and the last of the lipstick and stop.

"Hey…" I find myself saying, leaning forward into the mirror and tilting my head to examine my eyes. I'm dimly aware of Mark sharing a look with Violet and hearing their mutual laugh.

"See something you like?" Violet asks.

"Is this a nightly narcissistic ritual we're witnessing?" Mark pushes my arm slightly so I look up and grin sheepishly.

"No, it's the um…" I smirk. "Well it's the eyeliner. I like it." I could do without the eyeshadow and the mascara that makes my lashes stick out like insect legs, but I can't help staring past it and really liking the way the eyeliner looked. If it was more smudged and sort of…

I blink against the sudden flash of light and Mark grins from behind his camera.

"Roger and his eyeliner, a love story." Mark jokes, pulling the picture out of the camera and setting it on the counter next to him.

"And you've captured our first moments together." I say. "That picture will probably have unlimited emotional value to me in the future." I finally close my eyes and rub at them with the Kleenex full of remover. When I open them again my face is clear.

"Where do you get this stuff?" I ask Violet. "I want some." Mark snorts behind me and I feel my skin burning just a little bit. "For like… um, shows. You know."

Violet winks at Mark and gives me a smile and pulls open one of the drawers next to the sink. It's completely full of makeup. She pulls out what looks like a black coloured pencil and hands it to me.

"I've got plenty. That should get you started." And then she giggles with Mark again and heads back into her room. Unable to resist, I uncap the pencil and lean into the mirror, trying to duplicate what she had done earlier. It takes me a few minutes, especially with Mark watching me and inserting a joking comment here or there, and it's not perfect. I try to smudge it with my fingers a little bit to make it look unintentionally good instead of looking like perfectly applied makeup. Mark touches my arm again.

"Come on, your makeup is fine, let's go watch the movie." He says and nudges me to start moving. I smile and follow him out of the bathroom and squeeze in beside him on the couch with Violet who has already put the movie in.

The couch is next to Violet's desk and I reach over and grab a pen sitting on the edge. I twirl it aimlessly through the first few minutes of the movie and then start poking Mark with it. He swats me away with a tired smile.

"What are you doing?" He yawns.

"Come on, Luke, lightsaber fight." I reach over and search for another writing utensil and find a pen for him and toss it in his lap and resume poking him until he picks it up.

"You can't lightsaber fight with pens, Roger." He says, poking me with his pen in the leg. I connect my pen to his and push it away and continue hitting at his pen with mine absently while still watching the movie. Violet is watching us with a small smile on her face. When she catches my eye she smirks knowingly and turns away.

"My lightsaber's bigger." I announce, countering his attack again.

He rolls his eyes. "Well I'm going to win. Luke always wins."

"Well I'm Han Solo and Han Solo is way fucking cooler than Luke. And Luke doesn't always win, Darth Vader cuts his fucking hand off." I insist, hitting Mark's wrist with my pen. "See? You lose."

"Han Solo doesn't have a lightsaber, he has a blaster." Mark says, switching the pen to his other hand.

"So what? He gets the girl." I grin. "He gets the girl who wears metal bikinis."

"Oh please," Mark sighs. "Leia only wore that because she was Jabba's slave. She wears unsexy weird shit every other time." He laughs. "You get the girl who's into incest."

I knock his pen out of his hand. "It's not like she knew, and at least I still have both hands at the end of the movies." I toss mine to the floor with his and grin. He rolls his eyes and turns back to the screen.

Around ten or fifteen minutes later, Mark's head is drooping slightly and then bobbing back up. I consider teasing him for it, but decide it's funnier to watch. Not long after, his head drops to the side and lands on my shoulder. I try to stay awake, but I'm fading fast and I can already feel my eyes closing despite my brain telling them to stay open. I finally let myself go and feel my head clunk against Mark's.

The next thing I know, Violet is shaking my arm slightly and I'm pulling myself up to wait beside Mark as she sleepily opens the pullout from the couch for us. I push Mark gently over to the right side and I take the left, falling face first into the pillow Violet put down for me and closing my eyes.

* * *

I open my eyes against the dull light streaming into the room and forget for a moment where I am. I'm fully conscious of the fact that I'm not the only one in the bed and suddenly I'm wondering what the hell came over me last night, until I remember vaguely that it's only Mark and I'm in Violet's room. I let the moment of panic pass and then pull myself out of bed and grab my bag to change clothes. I head into Violet's bathroom and close the door softly so I don't wake the other two up. My eyeliner that I applied before bed has smudged into two big black eyes, so I steal some more of Violet's makeup remover and wipe it all off. I secretly hope this shit comes off with just plain water too, because I don't think I could handle having to go buy makeup remover for myself.

I pull on the same jeans from last night and a new shirt and pull out my toothbrush too and start rummaging through the bathroom looking for some toothpaste. I rummage carefully, knowing I'm in a girls bathroom and that there are plenty of awkward surprises to be found. I find some in the drawer opposite the makeup drawer and help myself. I feel kind of gross for forgetting to brush my teeth last night so I work them a little longer than usual.

The clock in the bathroom says 6:34 am, which is a fairly normal hour for me to wake up, I'm an early riser, but I was hoping that for once I might actually sleep late, considering I have nothing to do until they decide to wake up. I can't very well have a lightsaber fight with myself. I smirk as I run a hand through my hair. Unless I'm speaking metaphorically, of course.

I toss my junk into my bag and put Violet's toothpaste back in the drawer and quietly head back into her room. I could steal Mark's keys and go get my guitar out of his car, but I don't really feel like walking through Violet's house by myself at six in the morning, either. And I couldn't really play it, since they'd still be sleeping. The only thing to do is wake at least one of them up.

Mark is sleeping on his side, his face looking a little younger without his glasses on. I head back over to the pullout couch and crawl back onto the bed. I hesitantly reach over and poke him in the arm. Mark bats at my hand and turns over. I resume poking him and after a minute he groans and turns back over toward me.

"What?" He mutters, still half asleep.

"I'm bored. Get up." I whisper back.

"Go get your guitar." He moans and closes his eyes again. I shake him.

"Come on, Mark. Get up. It's morning. Normal people wake up in the morning." I insist.

Mark groans again, blinks his eyes open and reaches for his glasses. He looks around the room for a moment until he sees the clock.

"Fuck, Roger." He hisses. "It's 6:30 in the morning."

I look over at the clock. "It is not, it's almost seven."

Mark pushes the blanket off of himself and reluctantly starts to climb out of bed.

"Why the fuck am I friends with you?" He grumbles, reaching for his bag and shooting me an evil look.

"Shut up." I whisper, pointing toward Violet sleeping in bed.

Mark's cheeks redden in embarrassment. "Too late." He mumbles. "Sorry, Vi."

Violet yawns and pulls herself out of bed, coming to join us. She pushes my shoulder and scowls playfully.

"What the hell are you doing up?" She asks as Mark heads to the bathroom to change.

I shrug. "It's morning." I insist. "People wake up in the morning."

When Mark and Violet are both dressed she escorts us downstairs for some breakfast. I find orange juice and a bagel and Mark goes for oatmeal and milk. Violet grabs a green apple and joins us at the table.

I can't remember the last time I had a sleepover. I dimly recall being over at a friend's house for the night in the past, but probably not since I was a little kid. I also don't recall having too much fun at any past sleepover experiences. But based on this one, I've decided I'm rather fond of sleepovers.

After breakfast, we sit around the table for a while longer, teasing and talking and allowing Mark to wake up enough to drive. I crack a joke about hoping the Millenium Falcon can get me home in one piece and Mark tells me that if I have a problem with his ship I can walk, then reminds me that Luke commonly flew X-Wing fighters, not the Falcon.

We finally shove our bags back into Mark's car and Violet gives us each a hug goodbye.

"See you Monday." Mark says, waving as we get in and he starts up his car. He pops in some Devo as we start moving.

"I had fun." I say, with a shrug, to no one in particular.

"The big rock star took a night off to play board games and have pen fights with lowly commoners, I'm impressed." Mark teases.

I smile. "I'll be the Han to your Luke anytime." I almost feel like a girl for how sentimental that could sound, though the implications are pretty innocent. Han and Luke are buddies, and Mark's definitely my buddy. And it's true, I do feel like I've got a good friend in Mark.

"So what, are you going to turn into a pumpkin or something? Is that why you have to leave so early?" Mark asks, smiling in a vague way that suggests he didn't mind my comment. But we now both have to be masculine enough to ignore it.

"Actually, I did promise to take Molly to the park today. She'll be up by now. I haven't seen her much this week." I smile. "She's mad at me for not spending enough time with her."

"Women." Mark says jokingly and I nudge him.

"You want to go? She won't mind." I offer and Mark smiles.

"Yeah, sure. Since I'm already up." He says.

I grin back. "Besides, I bet you can't even do the monkey bars." I laugh when he rolls his eyes.

* * *

When we get to my house I bring my bag and my guitar up to my room while Mark takes a look through my record collection and admires my stereo. I change my shirt quickly and I'm rubbing a bit of gel through my hair when Molly runs in through my bedroom door.

"Hey, little girl." I say, as she jumps in my arms. She's pretty small for her age, and I can still easily lift her up. I hug her tight and set her down, then gently turn her around.

"This is my friend, Mark. We're gonna take you to the park, cool?" I ask her, practically able to predict her giggle of agreement. She smiles almost shyly at Mark but warms up a little when he smiles back and crouches down to her height to say hello.

I find my mom in the kitchen eating with Audrey. Audrey shouts my name when she sees me and I give her a hug and kiss her forehead. She starts ignoring her breakfast and I have to sit for a minute to refocus her attention.

"I'll love you even more if you finish your breakfast, Audrey." I tell her, pushing Molly toward the door and bending to give my mom a quick hug.

"My friend, Mark." I tell my mom, and she smiles, recognizing his name from our talks. "We're taking Molly to the park."

They chat for a minute while I find shoes for Molly to put on and then we're heading out, walking the two blocks from my house to the nearest park with Molly between us.

"What kind of homework do you have this weekend?" I ask Mark, as Molly grabs my hand and swings our arms back and forth.

Mark makes a face. "History, mostly."

I nod. "Yeah. I have to finish all the Chemistry still."

"Roger!" Molly says, pulling on my hand and looking up with her big green eyes.

I squeeze her little hand. "What's up?"

"Pay attention to me." She insists as if it's obvious and I grin.

"What are you in the mood for, Miss Molly. Swings? Slides? We can play tag and make Mark be 'it'." I catch Mark smiling despite trying to look annoyed.

As soon as we get there, Molly opts for the swings, grabbing the nearest one and insisting I push her. Mark takes a seat on the one next to hers and moves idly back and forth, watching me and Molly. She keeps begging to go higher, but the paranoid brother in me keeps her going a good height, but still within a safe distance from the ground.

"I'm going to jump, Roger." She says, moving her hands on the chains of the swing.

"No you're not, little girl." I tell her, quickly. "You know I don't like when you do that."

"I'm going to!" She insists. When she swings back my direction for another push I grab the chains and pull the swing to a stop as it hits against my torso. I wince slightly and rub my stomach as Molly makes a face at me over her shoulder.

"Not fun, Roger." She says, then frowns. "I'm sorry."

I grin at her and mess up her hair a bit. "Aw, I'm fine. You know I just worry about you."

Molly sees another girl from her class over by the slides and begs to go play with her. I let her go, taking her place on the swing next to Mark and keeping an eye on her.

"Who knew the rockstar had such a soft spot?" Mark teases.

I catch his eye and grin a bit, then punch him in the arm and head over to the monkey bars.

"Come on, I still don't think you can do them." I taunt and he has no choice but to follow. He climbs up the ladder and grabs hold of the first rung and proves to be slightly better at it than I would have thought, getting more than halfway across the long set of bars before jumping to the ground, crossing his arms and leaning against the ladder on the other side.

I rub my hands together and follow suit, pulling my weight along the rungs and almost thinking I'm not going to make it. I feel my muscles strain as I reach for the last bar and then drop a little shakily to my feet. I should start lifting weights or something. A set of monkey bars shouldn't have my arms burning like this. But I relish my victory over Mark who scowls playfully and demands a rematch.

* * *

At home later that night I find the pictures Mark gave me in my bag and toss the ones of the band on the table next to my bed to use for posters or something. I smile at the picture of Mark and Violet and feeling a little sentimental, I stick it in the pocket of my guitar case. It's been a long time since I've had any close friends and I'm beginning to think I'm going to have to give the recluse act a rest for a little bit. It doesn't feel entirely bad, either. 


	6. Monday Morningness and Mix Tapes

**Disclaimer:** I don't own RENT.

**Author's Note:** Thanks very much for the reviews, we love getting the feedback and knowing what you like. You've still got a few chapters before any kind of MR, so enjoy their friendship for now. Thanks again and enjoy.

This story will contain a female OC. She will be a main character. She also will **not be** "involved" with either Mark or Roger. Ever. She's there to bring them together and be cute. Seriously, we promise. She won't boink the boys.

**I Found a Reason  
Chapter Six _–_**_Monday Morningness and Mixtapes  
_**Mark's POV**

Monday morning starts with me being unable to locate my usual shoes. I tear my room apart in an apathetic sort of confusion until I have to give up, realizing that any more time spent searching will make me late. I grab an older pair from under my bed that pinch my feet and hurry to gather my books, still strewn across my floor from finishing my homework around midnight. I shove them into my bag, grab my camera and stop briefly in the bathroom to run a hand through my still-damp hair. I rake my fingers through it, trying to go for artfully disheveled. It flops back into place, leaving a wet smear on the upper corner of my right lens. I frown and wipe my glasses on my shirt as I hurry downstairs to grab some toast from my mom before running to the car.

Being late results in a parking spot in the back end of the parking lot. The only thing I have to be grateful for is that gym is first period. By now, I definitely wouldn't have made it on time to any other class. So I take my time, adjusting the contents of my bag to make sure my heavy History book won't crush my camera before walking to the school.

I stroll into the locker room a couple minutes after the bell to find Roger leaning against my locker waiting, already in his uniform. He looks rather tired, but I pass it off as Monday morningness. I give him a push to the side as a way of greeting, setting down my bag on the bench behind me and reach for my lock.

"Are we officially starting our feeble attempts at participation today?" I ask him, glancing over my shoulder to catch him going through various pockets of my bag. He wrinkles his nose and shrugs, pulling a notebook out of my bag and taking a seat to flip through it.

"We have to start sometime." He pauses on one page then grins, turning the notebook to the side. "I guess you weren't too interested in the Revolutionary War."

I move to look over his shoulder and see my notes from last week covered in various sketches and doodlings.

"Well, I drew some soldiers too." I say, pointing. "Look, that one has a gun. I think their uniforms might even be historically accurate."

Roger smirks and continues flipping through my notebook. "Weight room, okay?" He asks, looking up briefly.

I nod, pulling my uniform out of my locker. I take my glasses off and set them beside Roger on the bench, so I can change shirts. He loses interest in the notebook and picks up my glasses instead and puts them on, his eyes blinking profusely behind the lenses as he adjusts to the change in his vision.

"Your eyes must suck." He says, taking them off a moment later and rubbing his eyes. He hands them back and resumes his search through my bag.

"Are you looking for something?" I ask him, switching my cords for the gym shorts. He shakes his head and shrugs, uncapping a pen to draw something on the cover of one of my other notebooks. I try to lean over to see but Roger grins and flips the notebook back toward himself.

"You'll see it later." He says, writing something else and then shoving my notebook back into my bag. I roll my eyes and grab my bag from him to shove it in my locker with my clothes. Roger stands up and stretches, then reaches down to the floor and picks up two bottles of water, tossing one to me.

"Thanks," I say as he uncaps his. "You didn't have…"

"Aw, I just stole them from the lunchroom." He grins, waving me off. "It's their fault for leaving

the vending machine open and unattended while they're stocking it."

"A felony is a great way to start the week." I agree, slowly following him out of the locker room. He turns around and walks backwards to smirk and shake the water bottle at me.

"I prefer to think of it as a misdemeanor, Mark. It's just petty theft." His heels hit the bottom stair and he has to turn around and face forward, and I take two steps at once to catch up and climb the rest beside him.

"You seem to know this area of the law pretty well." I tease and he crosses his arms, pretending to be defensive.

"Well if you'd like to attempt forty minutes of hanging out with a bunch of sweaty jocks in their natural habitat while pretending to be getting involved, _without_ your stolen water, go right ahead. I'll take two." He says, reaching for mine and I pull it out of his grasp.

"No, I'm good." I grin, making my way into the weight room and heading towards the far corner to plop onto an innocent looking device geared toward the leg muscles. Roger takes the one beside me. Across the room is the heavy lifting area, reserved usually only for the varsity athletes. This side of the room is for freshman who don't know how to get away with not working yet, the girls who come for the cardio weight circuit, and for guys like me and Roger who don't give a damn either way.

Since Roger stole water, I go grab us some score cards and pens to write down our progress, to turn in at the end of class for credit. Roger scribbles his name on the card and then tosses it on the floor in front of him and picks up his water bottle. I can't help but do the same, the air in the room is stifling.

There's already a good amount of people joining us for the workout. Maybe fifteen or twenty over in the varsity section, ten or so girls ready for the cardio portion. There's a good portion of sophomore girls doing weights today, some of them glancing over at Roger once in awhile and giggling between each other, though I'm sure I saw at least one small freshman girl give me the eye too.

Roger nudges me and gestures absently with his water bottle. "Take a drink every time a freshman actually does what they're supposed to." Sure enough, there's a couple of them grouped together where he pointed already straining and sweating after only a few minutes.

"Poor kids," He says, almost sympathetically. "Well, they'll learn eventually."

"We all do." I agree, hooking my feet under the bar of my weight machine and having a go at lifting it. It doesn't budge and I frown down at my skinny legs and try again. Roger lets out a laugh.

"Hang on, Mark. Some musclehead stuck the pin in at 150." He jumps down from his machine and sticks my pin it at the line the gym teachers draw, representing the minimum weight we can lift for credit.

"What was someone lifting 150 doing on this side of the room?" I mutter, trying again and this time my legs move up with the machine. I let them drop and look around for the coach. He's spotting someone on the varsity end, so I lean back and give up. Roger makes a face.

"Take a drink every time one of the football players camps out in front of the mirror." He says, with a vague laugh.

I take a drink with him and watch a couple of the guys on the other end of the room who do in fact inevitably flex for the mirror after each set of reps.

"They're worse than girls." Roger snorts, wiping his forehead. "It's fucking hot in here."

It's my turn to grin. "Take a drink every time one of your fangirls goes to pieces when you move, breathe, laugh or otherwise exist." I say, referring to girls on the cardio circuit who keep looking in our direction and the sophomore girls who keep giggling and slapping each other.

Roger rolls his eyes. "That's nothing." He acknowledges the girls with a grin and wink and then uncaps his water. The giggling actually drowns out the droning beeps of the timer for the cardio girls and the laughing and encouragement coming from the varsity section for a couple seconds.

"Why the fuck do they do that?" He frowns. "Girls can be so cute, but they fucking ruin it by acting like idiots."

I shrug. "You can give them a pass to your good friend, Mark if you want."

He smiles. "Pedophile, those are underclassmen. They're like, fourteen. And you can have them. Take your pick, tell them I sent you."

"Is that like, the Roger Davis girlfriend discount? Half the effort if I mention you upfront?" I grin at him.

"Tell her you can get her backstage and I bet you'll get laid." He offers and looks around. "Should we change machines? We've been doing this one awhile."

I nod and follow him to a different set, designed for the arms. "How many reps do you think we did for legs?" I ask, staring down at my progress card.

"I'd say about fifty." He shrugs, writing it in.

"Probably at like, 80lbs, right?" I ask.

He furrows his brow. "Yeah, that's plausible. I think." He smiles to himself. "I have to confess, I don't know anything about lifting weights."

"I know that I'm supposed to sit here and move stuff around once in awhile," I shrug. "One time I sat on this leg machine thing all wrong. I was trying to bench press or something. Instead of explaining to me why I was an idiot, I just got no credit."

Roger laughs. "Sometimes I think I use more effort pretending to work than if I'd actually just do it, you know?"

"Yeah," I agree. "But I still feel more accomplished if I just sit here."

Someone blows a whistle and we both jump. "Cohen! Davis! Get to work!"

"Shit." I sigh, gripping the handles of my machine and pushing.

"Pull, Mark." Roger mutters, his eyes on the coach when I fail to make progress.

"Oh, yeah." I laugh awkwardly. "I knew that."

The coach passes us by and we resume our half-ass work out from before. Roger glares daggers over at the varsity section.

"Take a drink every time he walks past _athletes_ who aren't working and doesn't say a word." Roger growls, his eyes on a group who have been sitting around aimlessly like us for most of the period.

"We could be doing something so much more productive right now." I muse.

"Practicing." Roger sighs.

"Studying for History." I moan, thinking about the homework I definitely should have started Friday night.

Roger winces at the mention of History. "Is that test today?" I nod unenthusiastically.

"For me it is." I sigh, just as the whistle gets blown again.

"If I have to warn you two again you're both getting no credit for the day."

"Shit," Roger says. "I'm rusty. He usually never catches me."

I nod, having no choice but to refocus on the workout.

* * *

I head toward Roger's locker to meet up with him for lunch. He's leaning against it, flipping through his History textbook and looking somewhat panicked. When he sees me he reaches out to grab my arm and pull me closer.

"Who was the King during the Revolutionary War?" He asks.

"George." I squint. "Second or Third, I don't remember."

"Shit." He moans, flipping to the index of the book. I take hold of his upper arm and start leading him out of the building.

"It's all right, we'll figure out what you don't know. We have all period, Roger." I say, trying to calm him down.

He still looks miserable, but manages a tight smile. We drop down under the tree to join Violet. Roger throws his book out in front of him and lays on his stomach, furiously skimming through chapters and mumbling to himself.

Violet pops her gum. "Did he forget to study?" She asks me.

I shrug. "I don't know. Hey, maybe you don't even have the test today, Roger. We _are_ in different classes. Ask someone in your class."

He scowls down into his book. "I don't know anyone in my class."

"You don't have to know them, you just have to ask them if you have a test or not." I tell him patiently. "That doesn't really require past conversation."

"Why did they fight so many battles?" He moans, dropping his head down onto his book.

Violet smiles sympathetically, reaching over to rub one of his shoulders. "Just calm down. You're not going to be able to remember anything if you're all crazy."

I drop down on my stomach beside Roger and nudge him over a bit so I can see his book too. He's frowning down at the Battle of Bunker Hill and looking terribly put out. Calmly, I start explaining the main concepts of each of the battles, hoping he'll retain enough information to be able to give at least a brief summary of most of them. Roger takes a few illegible notes, nodding every so often, his brow furrowed. Violet drops in to elaborate on certain details, and slips him a piece of gum while I tell him that the British captured Ticonderoga in 1777.

When the bell rings he hastily gathers his book and his notes and takes a moment to give me a brief one-armed hug and playfully give Violet's ponytail a tug before muttering a thanks and running away, his eyes locked onto his notes.

* * *

Once I'm home, I realize I don't have any homework for the night and drop my bag to the floor near the front door with relief. I spend my afternoon going through boxes of old pictures, critiquing my past work and planning some new things. I also continue the fruitless quest for my favourite shoes, which remain nowhere to be found.

Around six, I get rather bored with myself. I figure dinner will be ready soon so I head downstairs and look around for my mom before remembering that she told me when I got home she was going out to dinner with Nanette's mother. They're fantastic friends and love to get together to talk about how great it would be if Mark and Nanette got married.

My father is still working, which means I'm definitely on my own. My mom said there's plenty in the fridge to heat up but when I open the fridge I'm less than impressed and still bored. I wonder what Roger's doing right now. We're in a lot of the same classes, and I know he couldn't have had much homework, if any. I pick up my bag and dig out my camera, checking that I have enough film. I catch sight of the notebook Roger was drawing on before gym and pull it out. I smirk at the stick figure wearing glasses and holding a lightsaber with an arrow pointing from the word 'Luke!'. Underneath is a phone number.

Taking it as a sign, I grab a phone and dial Roger's number. It rings a couple times before I hear either Molly or Audrey giggling in the background and his mother saying hello.

"Hey, Mrs. Davis, it's Mark. Is Roger there?"

I hear a faint banging sound and Roger's voice. "He just walked in," his mother tells me pleasantly. "How are you, Mark?" She asks.

"Great, Mrs. Davis." I say, smiling and waiting for Roger who takes the phone a second later.

"Hey," he says, sounding much happier than during lunch. "What's up?"

"Let's go bowling," I suggest. "I'm bored. I can come pick you up."

"Bowling?" He says faintly, and I sense his mood dimming. "Um, well…"

I smirk. "Come on, it'll be fun. I'm terrible. Unless you've got homework or something?"

"Oh. Uh, no. Well, uh…" he sighs. "Yeah, great. Whenever you want, I guess. Is Violet coming?"

"I was going to call her. I'll have to look her up in the phone book. You okay?" I ask, and I have a feeling that he's nodding, even though I can't see him, since there's a delay in his response.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just show up whenever. I'll see you." He sighs.

When we hang up I almost regret calling him. I was hoping to get him out to cheer him up, but the idea didn't seem to do much for his mood, despite bringing it down a notch or two.

I look up Violet in the phonebook who asks for a few minutes to get ready, so I scribble a quick note for my parents, grab my bag and leave for Roger's house first to give her time.

Roger is sitting with his acoustic in front of the house, leaning against the door and strumming idly when I pull up. Seeing me he offers a half-hearted wave and goes inside for a moment, resurfacing without his guitar. He heads over and drops into the passenger seat.

"Hey." I say.

"Hey." he sighs in return.

"Did you have your test?" I ask him and he nods, brightening slightly.

"Yeah, I did fine on it too." He smiles. "It was pretty easy. Thanks, man. I totally owe you."

I shrug. "You saved my ass in Geometry. Fair is fair." He grins and relaxes a bit, then yawns.

"Tired?" I ask him. "You seemed sort of dead today."

He nods. "Band practice yesterday and today after school. I'll be disappearing most of this week when I'm not in school." He jokes, then scowls. "We don't have a show until next weekend, but I have to make sure I learn some of the guitar parts. Ryan decided he liked the fuller sound with me playing rhythm guitar, so now I have to learn all his shitty songs and most of the covers." Roger goes off on a rant for a few minutes, leaving me to agree with him once in awhile and nod sympathetically.

We pick up Violet a few minutes later and head for the bowling alley, Roger turning surly again as we drive. Within a few minutes of getting our shoes, picking balls and setting up our score card for the lane, we find out why. Roger's first attempt results in the ball bouncing directly into the gutter, in the lane next to ours, and it doesn't get much better from there. His next few tries are more lane jumpers and immediate gutterballs. I've never seen anyone worse at bowling.

Violet keeps score for us, popping her gum while writing down the numbers. She frowns miserably at each of Roger's failed attempts.

"It's not even like I can make up number for pins to make him feel better. He hasn't hit any yet." She whispers to me as the guy from the next lane shoves the ball that had rolled over by his feet into Roger's arms and tells him to get lost. Roger scowls and drops down into the seat next to me. I exchange a look with Violet. Neither one of us is any good either, but we've at least knocked down a couple of pins here and there. I take the ball from Roger and grab his sleeve to pull him up.

"Come on, Roger. Look, roll it like this." I get down on my knees with the ball and push it a couple inches. I hand it to Roger and lead him over to the lane. "Just roll it like that."

He grumbles, but gets down and takes the ball, taking time to aim it carefully and then pushes it. It wobbles for a couple feet, then drops into the gutter. He stomps away, crossing his arms and falling into his seat.

"Here, Roger." Violet says, standing up. "Try it this way."

"It's not my turn." He insists. "It's yours. Go ahead."

"No, I want you to have fun." She smiles and pulls him over to the lane and hands him his ball again, taking hers as well.

"Lean over and roll it like this, okay?" She says, bending over with her legs spread and her arms and the ball between her feet. She chucks the ball down the lane and it goes fairly straight until the end, taking out two pins on the side.

Roger begrudgingly mimics her, getting into the awkward position and hurling his ball after hers. To his credit, it makes it all the way down the lane, but plummets out of sight without hitting any pins at the end. He throws up his hands and walks away. I turn around in my seat to call after him but he waves me away and heads off to the arcade.

"He'll be fine," I tell Violet. "He's just being a jerk."

She shrugs, picking up the scorecard again. "He's frustrated. It happens."

We resume our game for awhile and I find myself admiring my bowling shoes during one of Violet's turns. They're a few terrible shades of red and blue and green. With mustard coloured laces and a big number 10 on the back of the heel. They're vaguely clownish, but still pretty fucking cool.

We finish off our game with scores barely breaching 100 and head off to find Roger. He's discovered the vending machines and is halfway through a Cherry Coke. Looking relatively pleased with himself, he lifts his coat away from his chest and reaches into the pocket and tosses Violet a tiny pink stuffed bear and me a little plastic dinosaur.

"I fucking rock at skee ball." He says with a little smile. "Sorry I'm being a jerk."

Violet gives him a hug and pulls us over to the eating area where she gets a giant pretzel and me and Roger opt for enormous slices of greasy pizza. Roger cheers up significantly since he's no longer anywhere near the bowling lanes and gets back to being himself. He teases me for only getting cheese pizza and buys us a round of soda.

We gather up our junk and officially close down our lane. I hang back while Violet and Roger return their shoes and then casually follow them out of the building. I bite my lip walking back to my car, but no one comes after me. Roger notices my feet and laughs outloud.

"Souvenir?" He asks, with a grin.

I smile driving home with my bowling shoes still on my feet. They'll be a nice replacement for

the pair that seems to have completely walked out of my life.

* * *

True to his word about band practice, I don't see Roger outside of school all week. Friday morning he comes into gym with a big grin on his face.

"You and Violet are coming over after school." He announces. "I just bought a bunch of vinyl last night, and I made you something."

So after school we head over to Roger's house to hear the new additions to his vinyl collection. In the car he's raving about Lou Reed and the Velvet Underground, and readjusts what he planned on making us listen to, since I've never even heard of Lou Reed.

Roger's mother is making cookies in the kitchen and Molly greets us at the door to hug Roger and then immediately hides behinds his legs when I attempt to say hello as well. Roger grins at me and winks, leading Molly back into the kitchen where she had been colouring and eating oatmeal cookies. Mrs. Davis wraps one arm around Roger while she cuts some dough with her other hand, then hands him a plate for us. Roger introduces her to Violet and Mrs. Davis wipes her hands on her pants to come over and say hello.

Upstairs, Roger sets down the plate of cookies for us and heads over to his record player. Roger's room is fairly messy, but the fact that it's big saves it from being overbearing. His stereo is big and expensive and next to it is his record player. One entire corner of his room is devoted to milk crates full of vinyl and cassette tapes and even an odd 8-track, though I don't see anywhere for him to play them. Next to that is his electric guitar on a stand near an impressive sized amp and his acoustic in a case. His closet is open and full of his uniform of tight jeans and shirts. He tosses his leather jacket on his bed.

"What's up with Molly?" I ask him, remembering her reaction to me that I found strange after we'd hung out with her at the park.

Roger grins cheekily. "She likes you. She renamed her Ken doll after you." He pushes a pile of vinyl over toward us and then digs into one of his crates and pulls out a few more.

"How can you not have heard this?" He asks, shaking his head. "We'll start with VU," he says. "Then Lou Reed." He puts on a record and comes over to sit next to me, leaning against his bed and closes his eyes.

"Velvet Underground is amazing." He says. "They've got all this weird shit and then these ballads, and they still know how to _rock_." He sighs, the opening notes filtering through the speakers around us, loud and beautiful. I don't know what a note of it means, but I like it. Roger starts humming to himself, muttering what could be chord changes under his breath. His fingers tap gently on his floor along with the easy beat. The singer is rough, his voice hardly sounds functional on some songs.

"Lou Reed, man." Roger sighs. "My favourite singer who can't really sing," he laughs. He opens his eyes and looks over at us, gauging our reaction after hearing a few songs. Violet is on the same level as me, we've both been listening intently, loving the sound surrounding us and loving Roger's reaction to each song. He smiles almost dreamily.

"Some people think that Lou's solo albums are pretentious, or that all he did was use a lot of VU songs on them with some little changes. But Lou fucking _was_ VU. He wrote all that shit anyway, and all he did was make it better."

Roger goes on and on about a song called 'Heroin', unable to decide if he prefers the original or the thirteen minute version on Rock n Roll Animal. It all sounds like nonsense to me when he starts talking music theory and gets introspective.

"I just don't know," Roger says softly. "Some of Lou's solo stuff is so fucking weird. And like, I don't get it. But I think he's one of those crazy musicians who's always ahead of their time, you know? I mean, no one knew who the fuck VU was until Bowie started dropping the name around. If you're always like, fifteen years ahead of everyone else, you're always going to be. Transformer is brilliant now, but it mostly just freaked people out back then. Maybe in another few years some of his stuff will make more sense."

He smiles. "I don't think he's lost it. I think he's just too fucking amazing for us."

Roger decides to switch to Transformer so we can hear what he's talking about. He can't help but sing along to 'Vicious', bobbing his head in rhythm and keeping beat on his knees with his hands.

"Can you hear his guitar?" Roger sighs. "He practically started this shit. All the feedback and the distortion. I mean, people were doing it, but nobody made it sound so fucking good."

Roger changes records a couple times. We hear 'Lisa Says' and 'Sad Song' and 'Berlin', which is possibly one of the most oddly depressing things I've ever heard. Eventually, though, Roger comes down from his Lou Reed high and brings out his acoustic guitar to play along aimlessly with old Johnny Cash songs, while we finally remember the cookies his mother made and dig in. He switches to Bowie, which we all know, so we can sing along to 'Rebel Rebel' and the rest of Diamond Dogs. Roger confesses that if he had his way with his band, they'd be covering a lot of the "glam rock" era, updating some retro Cash and keeping some of the seventies punk music. They'd be playing originals with hard rock style guitar solos and driving bass lines, but with the soul behind it that The Smiths had. He has vague visions of a band comprised of what he thinks is "the good stuff" and fitting it all with a modern edge.

"I don't want to abandon the punk completely," he grins. "I love that shit too. But I've had my fill for a few years. I've never wanted to be one of those people that's a musician because they look good doing it. One of the things I hate about punk is the lack of _ability_." He says. "They can't play." He scowls. "The further we get, the less the rock stars know about what they're doing."

"Are you classically trained?" Violet asks him, a bit surprised, and he shakes his head and then reconsiders.

"Well, I am, I guess." He admits. "I know theory, I've been listening to Chopin and Mendelssohn since I was a kid. I buy anything of Beethoven's I can find. My mom plays her operas when she paints. I've had a couple guitar teachers who were college music majors. I know what I'm doing. I'm not some fucking asshole with a bad haircut who learned how to play D, G and C and jumped up onstage." He looks bitter for a moment. "I just fucking wish I got to play onstage."

"You said you were going to, though." I say, recalling our conversation earlier in the week.

He snorts. "I'm playing rhythm for our classic rock stuff while Ryan fucks up songs by the Ramones." He looks over at me. "He offered to let me play our ACDC stuff, which no one wants to hear anyway, and it's only because he can't fucking play it and he knows it. What the fuck kind of lead guitar player can't play an ACDC song?

"I need to quit." He sighs. "I need something else."

Our music party lasts another hour or so, after Roger pulls out Nick Drake's Pink Moon and then makes us listen to U2's 'October' before he calls it a night and offers to take us out for something to eat. We end up at a diner across town, me and Roger ordering giant chocolate sundaes and Violet with a fruit plate. Our waitress flirts with Roger, who for once doesn't seem to mind, since his mood is so elevated. He shrugs it off when I tease him and starts singing 'Ballad of Teenage Queen'. He leans on me and gives Violet the cherry from his sundae, laughing loudly and draping an arm around each of us. I pull out my camera and we convince our waitress to take a few pictures of the three of us grouped together, since my attempts at doing it for us resulted in a waste of film.

When I drop Roger off he slips a cassette into my hand, punches me in the arm as a goodbye and grins when he gets out of the car and heads into his house. It's a mix tape, featuring some of the songs we listened to today and a lot of other things. As I'm at home laying in bed with my eyes steadily closing as The Smiths dreary 'Asleep' fades out and kicks into 'Search and Destroy', I start laughing. It seems so fucking funny that he's got the most amazing potential as a rock star, but Roger can't make a mix tape to save his life.


	7. Heavy Metal and Plastic Crowns

**Disclaimer:** I don't own RENT.

**Author's Note: **I've been quite busy in the past few months, sorry kids. Thanks for reading, me and Katie appreciate the feedback and responses. 3

This story will contain a female OC. She will be a main character. She also will **not be** "involved" with either Mark or Roger. Ever. She's there to bring them together and be cute. Seriously, we promise. She won't boink the boys.

**I Found a Reason  
Chapter Seven **_**– **Heavy Metal and Plastic Crowns  
_**Roger's POV**

I dump my new pile of vinyl in the backseat of my car and climb in, swearing under my breath when I realize what time it is and vowing to buy a watch. This is the second time this week I'm going to be late for rehearsal because I've been music shopping. Not that it really matters. The only person who will be on time is Julian and it's not like he's going to be bitching me out for being 5 minutes late.

After a minute of determining there isn't anything good on the radio, at a red light I search the back seat for any kind of tape, but turn up nothing. I'm forced to begrudgingly settle for the new Guns N Roses song. I roll up my window lest someone in the vicinity hear GNR coming from my car. I scowl listening to Axl scream and consider the pile of old rock I have in my backseat, suddenly wishing having a record player inside of my car was possible.

My mood doesn't get the boost I was hoping for when I get to Julian's house. Even though I'm nearly ten minutes late, I can only see Julian in his garage, banging away on his drums, black mop of hair moving with his beat. Rolling my eyes even though it's entirely what I expected, I grab my guitar out of the backseat and head over to him. When he finally notices me heading up the driveway he grins and takes the tempo way down, pushing the hair out of his face and just tapping a simple little beat to keep busy while I pull a chair over toward him and sit down.

"Roger Davis, you are so fired." He teases, pointing at the clock. I laugh while I take my guitar out of its case and check the tuning.

"Did you fire the other two?" I smile so he knows I'm joking and Julian makes an attempt to return it before managing to look guilty and thoughtful at the same time. I start playing idly, waiting for an explanation.

"You know, Roger," he says slowly, with an awkward little smile. "I've been really thinking. And I think I want to hear more of your ideas for a new band."

I hit a wrong note in surprise. "Really? Hey, man. That's great!" Trying to keep my excitement in check, I start playing again, keeping my eyes on Julian. He keeps up his idle drumming and nods.

"Ryan called me last night and told me I need to get my act together. I'm not keeping up with him as well as I used to," He tells me, frowning and flipping his hair out of his eyes. "And some other bullshit. And I just finally thought, 'well fuck that'."

_Finally is right_, I think to myself. "So you really want to quit? We'll quit together?" I ask him and he nods again, but looks hesitant.

"We've still got commitments as a band we have to finish, Roger. We're booked for a few shows coming up." Julian laughs awkwardly, slightly nervous. "And I still haven't figured out what I'm going to tell them."

I feel the excitement waning, but I ignore it for now and focus on Julian. "Take your time, man. I know they're your friends. If you want to blame it on me or something, do it. I don't care."

He rolls his eyes with a smile. "What am I supposed to say? You held me at gunpoint and forced me to quit the band?"

I grin. "If you think they'll buy it."

* * *

Mark grabs my arm as I head toward the locker room, pulling me back away from the door.

"Let's ditch," he says. "I want to show you something." He looks delighted, pushing his glasses up on his nose and pulling a paper clip out of his pocket as I stand guard next to the door up to the wrestling balcony. I grin, pulling a new package of Djarum Blacks out of my pocket and searching for a lighter as Mark pushes the door open. We slip through the door and I tap a cigarette out of the pack and light it up as we climb up the stairs.

"You're a fucking chimney," Mark teases. I hold the cigarette out to him and he takes a small drag before handing it back. "You and your damn cloves. You artfuck."

Mark drops his bag onto the floor next to the wall and slides down beside it. I shove my lighter back into my pocket and then take a seat beside him, stretching one leg out long in front of me and the other bent up close to my chest, my elbow balancing on the knee. I wait for Mark to follow through on his declaration from before, but he has pulled his camera out and is idly turning it over in his hands.

"So what's up, Marky? Why are you depriving me of my daily physical education?" I yawn, leaning back against the wall.

He grins and reaches down into the front pocket of his bag. "I developed the film that we took with my dad's camera for my project. I brought all the pictures of you and Violet."

Mark pulls a few photos out of an envelope, and hands them to me carefully with a silly proud smile. Over the weekend me and Violet had hung around with Mark so he could take pictures for one of his Photos projects, with the night inevitably ending in another sleepover, which included more pictures. He scoots a little closer and starts immediately pointing at details in the pictures I would have missed and telling me all about the mechanics behind each shot. I try to look past just admiring my hair in the photos.

The first shot is me and Violet sitting on a curb, my perpetual cigarette dangling from a hand balanced over a knee similar to how I'm sitting now. Violet is leaning in close like she's telling a secret, grinning toward me in a knowing and girlish way, her face half obscured by my profile.

"Look in the back corner," Mark says, pointing. "You can just barely see them."

I look where he points and see two people of indeterminate sex and age holding hands. Mark beams at them. I notice other things like a crumpled piece of paper mixed in with a pile of leaves near the tree behind us and a crushed can next to my foot.

"Look at the depth," he urges. "You and Violet are the only things in total focus. That's what I wanted, since you're the subjects. But look, it's so vivid." He starts talking about depth of field and how it applies to his shots. I flip to the next picture of me and Violet on a park bench. My left arm rests on top of the bench, Violet leaning back against my shoulder with her knees drawn up to her chest, looking back at me indignantly while I stare into my lap with a smirk. We'd been arguing over whether or not heavy metal passed as an acceptable form of music. Neither one of us was really arguing _for_ metal, but Violet said it served to represent the idealistic fantasy lifestyle for young American men, and kept them away from our bands. I had shrugged and said "simple minds like simple music", which earned me the slightly resentful look in the photo before she called me a jerk in a playful tone and giggled.

The other photo is me and Violet lying on the grass. I look bored and lazy, maybe more than a bit irritated, smoking like it's the only thing keeping me alive and Violet strikes a Vogue pose laying on her side with her arm around the back of her head, glamour shot style with pouty lips. It's a silly picture, we both look like caricatures of separate ends of the teenage spectrum. I'm the moody bad boy and she's Miss Hollywood of suburban USA. I roll my eyes at Mark.

"You can't use this one, we look like nerds," I tell him, holding it back out to him. "I refuse to allow this to be shown to any of our peers."

He scoffs at me and takes it back, looking it over and smirking down at it.

"Why not? Look at you, thinking you're so fucking James Dean, Roger." He laughs. I scowl and peer over his shoulder down at the picture again.

"Nowhere in that picture am I engaging in any sort of inappropriate activity with James Dean." I sneer. "And I don't have any of that attitude either. I just look bored. You're full of shit." I stub my cigarette out on the floor and light up another.

Mark looks mildly concerned. "I need these for my display, Roger. Do you really not want me to use them?"

I give him a punch in the arm like always and lazily kick at his left foot with my right so he knows I'm not really serious. "No, man. Use them, I'm just teasing. I don't mind public humiliation if it's to benefit my buddy."

Mark smiles, returning the little foot kick. "I'm glad you're saying that now, because you haven't seen the other pictures yet."

"Where are the rest?" I ask. "I want to see them."

"Can you come by after school? You can see some of my other stuff too, if you want." He offers and I grin before taking a long drag on the cigarette and then leaning back and exhaling. I nod and give him a smile. Mark gathers his photos back in the envelope and stuffs them back in the front pocket of his bag and pulls out a few recent pictures. I point out my favourites, a Polaroid of some cute girl smoking outside of the movie theatre and another of a tree out in front of the school taken with the camera he'd made in Photos.

We talk about the cute girl in front of the theatre. Mark had finally gotten around to seeing the big sci-fi movie The Abyss, which came out a couple weeks ago, though he seems rather indifferent about it.

"It was all right," he muses. "Interesting, I guess. It had a few storylines going on, but none of them were particularly good."

He shrugs. "I saw her on my way out. I had to sort of hide, I felt like a creep taking her picture at night."

Mark might have gone on about the shapely brunette with the cigarette or he might have given me more commentary on the movie, but the 10 minute bell to go change went off at the same time the loud speaker crackled as it was turned on. Below us I could hear everyone abandoning their games and heading back towards the locker rooms. A very excited girl starts talking about homecoming on the speaker and starts to announce the nominations for court.

I share a laugh with Mark as we start to gather up our stuff and I stub out my cigarette on the floor and stand up. I'm stretching when she starts to announce the nominations for Junior Prince.

"Tyler Smith, Michael Stevens, Daniel Wilson and Roger Davis!"

Mark snorts loudly and covers his mouth. I stop looking mortified for a moment to glare at him.

"Shut up!" I hiss. "It's not funny!" It's far too late, Mark is long gone, laughing himself stupid while I roll my eyes and start toward the door.

"Wait, wait!" Mark calls out, slightly winded from laughing. "Someone will see you, don't open the door yet."

Frowning, I slump against the door and shove my hands into the tight pockets of my pants. Mark flops beside me, grinning.

"Gosh, Roger. You're so _popular_. I had no idea!" He teases, nudging me when I refuse to give up glowering.

"Aw, c'mon, Rog. It's not so bad. All you have to do is stand up in front of the entire school and wear a plastic crown."

I roll my eyes. "It's not a crown. The King gets a crown. The Prince gets some stupid stick thing."

"A scepter? Oh man…" He supplies before snickering again.

"Oh shut up, Mark." I say again, before smiling despite myself and finally sharing in the joke with him. It's all so fucking stupid after all.

We decide it's safe to venture out and wait next to the gym door. Some girl near us is squealing over being nominated for whatever the Freshman court honour is. I roll my eyes again and cross my arms until the bell rings, listening to Mark talk about how I should use my princely power to get more vending machines installed in the cafeteria and dedicate more periods a day to art classes instead of gen eds.

The final bells rings and we start down the hallway together, but are instantly slowed down by a group of girls who obviously don't realize that it's possible to talk and walk at a reasonable speed at the same time. They're pawing each other and giggling, maybe over the nominations or maybe over something else. Either way, it's fucking irritating.

Mark pulls out his camera and takes a picture. When the Polaroid slides out he shoves the camera back in his bag and holds it up, waiting for it to develop.

"Why would you take a picture of this?" I mutter, walking so slow I don't feel like I'm moving at all. I start looking around for a way to push through.

Mark shrugs. "I think I'll call it 'Congestion'. What do you think?"

"I think you should call it something more like 'What Birthcontrol Could have Prevented'." I sneer as the girls' shrieking giggles rip into my ears again. Fucking weird… a whole life of loud rock music and one girly giggle causes a migraine for a week. Mark starts to look fed up as well and checks his watch as we shuffle along.

"Who are you going to vote for?" The loudest girl asks. "I'm voting for Roger Davis, since he's so hot."

I make a face and Mark snorts again, grabbing my arm and letting out a real laugh. I sigh and smile slightly at him, shaking my head.

"Tyler, oh my God." One girl breathes.

"Michael," says another. "I talked to him yesterday, you know. He asked me what day it was in homeroom."

I can't believe these girls are in our grade. I exchange a look with Mark, wondering if I'm enough of a jerk to tell them to move their gossip party somewhere else. Mark checks his watch again and gives me a frustrated look. I shrug.

"Well I'm still gonna vote for Roger. He's so damn hot." The first girl says again, even louder.

Mark rolls his eyes and groans. "Jesus, we all know he's hot, shut the hell up and move!" He grabs my arm and pulls me behind him, slipping through the gaggle of girls and on towards Chemistry.

* * *

Despite my pleas, Violet and Mark giggle at me all through Geometry. During lunch, while sitting outside underneath the willow tree, Violet plucks the dandelion clocks from the grass and blows the seeds at me. Mark puts another set of film in his Polaroid.

"Are you still going to sit with us when you're high school royalty, Roger?" Violet asks, picking another dandelion. She leans back against the tree, blonde hair blowing slightly in the subtle wind.

Mark laughs, stretching out on his back and pointing his camera up into the branches of the willow. He frowns, adjusts his position a bit, but then reconsiders and sits up. He wanders away and kneels to consider another angle of some different trees.

I flop onto my back on the ground near Violet, who has started braiding the slender, fallen twigs of the willow together and pursing her lips together in frustration when they crack instead of bend.

"I saw this guy today wearing a shirt for The Ramones." I tell her, crossing my arms over my chest. "Except I know he only listens to metal."

"Were you offended or something?" She asks, and I roll my eyes.

"Well if someone who thought that Jani Lane was the quintessential frontman wore a shirt of a band you liked, wouldn't you be?" I demand.

Violet makes a face. "Poison?"

"No, worse. Warrant." I correct her.

She frowns and snaps another willow twig. "I hate confusing metal bands."

I nod in sympathy. "Yeah, it almost makes it okay for people who like shitty music to do it to us."

"But in our defense," Violet says with a smirk. "They all sound the fucking same anyway."

I laugh. Mark heads back to us and joins me lying on the grass. I steal the developing pictures from his hand and hold them up, smiling despite myself. Mark takes good pictures, even of things that aren't necessarily photogenic.

"Why are you taking pictures of these?" I ask him, holding one out in front of me.

Mark smiles and looks vaguely distant, lost in his thoughts. "Because they're beautiful." He says.

I wrinkle my nose. "If you say so," I don't see what he sees in the season, but I suppose I never have. I don't like fall. "I don't think there's anything beautiful in watching the world die around you."

Mark scratches the back of his neck and looks back at the trees in the pictures. "I've never thought of it like that," he admits. "I just see the colours. Even suburbia is beautiful in fall."

I roll my eyes at him while giving him a smile. He scoots over to look at the pictures with me.

"Why were you two talking about metal?" Mark asks while we look. "That's twice in the past couple days."

"What's the difference between heavy metal and glam metal?" Violet asks.

I shrug. "Mostly the amount of makeup they're wearing. And what percentage of their fanbase is female."

Mark laughs at me. "So with your newfound obsession with eyeliner, where do you fit in?"

I roll my eyes. "With glam _rock_, of course."

Mark hands Violet the tree pictures and also the ones he showed me during gym class, and leans over her to give her the same photography lecture he gave me. She nods her approval while he talks. I desperately feel like lighting a cigarette so I look around for a moment to check for anyone who might disapprove and then pull the pack out of my pocket and shake one out. While I'm lighting up Mark crawls back away from Violet to stick his pictures back in his bag.

"You guys want to go see a band tonight?" I ask them, shoving my lighter back in my pocket.

"Do they sound anything like your band?" Violet teases and Mark laughs before smiling apologetically.

I grin back at them. "It's not like anyone goes to see bands for the music around here. They don't card and there's a big dance floor."

"Sure," Mark shrugs. "We can go from my house after school."

He looks over at Violet. "Oh, Roger's coming over to check out the other pictures from last weekend, if you want to come too."

She smiles and tosses her tragic mess of cracked willow twigs, that she had been attempting to make some sort of bracelet out of, at Mark.

"Pick me up before you go to the show," she says. "I need to spend some time on an art project. I have a painting I need to finish by Monday."

Somehow we missed hearing the bell ring and are only aware the period has ended by finally catching on that the rest of the people outside are headed back into the building. We gather ourselves up quickly and head back inside, sticking together on the way to our next classes. Today seems to be an especially terrible day to navigate the hallways. We again find ourselves stalled, this time behind a significant amount of girls spread out in a giant circle in the middle of the hallway who are absolutely determined not to move for anyone.

"Just push through." Violet tells us from behind me, impatiently.

"I can't just _push _them, they're girls." Mark says awkwardly, pushing his glasses up on his nose. A skinny girl who is all legs in a short denim skirt gives him a condescending look over her shoulder. He rolls his eyes and shrugs at me. Violet taps one of them on the shoulder and asks her to get the fuck out of the way.

"Excuse me, we're talking." The girl says to Violet and turns away.

"Well, excuse me," Violet snaps back. "I'm trying to get to my class. I think you can talk any other damn place, but we need to get to our classes, and we need to use the fucking hallway to get there. So congregate somewhere else."

We push through and I start to gather my history notes together from my notebook. Violet gives us a wave and heads down a different hallway. Mark sticks with me for another few steps and the bell rings as we part ways and head into separate rooms.

* * *

The rest of Mark's pictures from the weekend are significantly more embarrassing, mostly due to the fact that he decided to take his camera out while I was half asleep and wandering around Violet's bedroom shirtless. There's one of me leaning on one arm over her sink, the other hand rubbing over my chin as I splash cold water on my face. It's taken from slightly behind my left shoulder so my reflection in her bathroom mirror is also visible, but somehow Mark and his camera aren't. Some others are of me sitting in a big, fluffy chair leaning back with my arms crossed looking almost drugged.

Mark reveals a couple of me sleeping on the pull out couch with my head on my arms, disheveled hair sticking out in a way I wouldn't generally allow while out in public. I tease him for being a pervert and he admits it's because he thinks I'm a good photo subject and goes on about it for a while. I have to smile although I also feel my ears burning a bit. It's not like I'm unaccustomed to being thought of as attractive, but it's quite another thing to hear your best friend saying it so blatantly. I almost resent being thought of as a piece of art by him. At least I would if we weren't buddies as well.

We spend the next few hours digging through his boxes of photos before heading out to pick Violet up for the show. I conned Mark into driving since I was planning on slipping a few drinks past the bartender and I was fairly certain he wasn't. The club is already filling up by the time we get there, but we manage to snag a table near the back to sit at until the night gets going. I light up a cigarette immediately and head toward the bar, flashing my ID at the bartender before he really has a chance to look at it. He slides me a beer with a wink. Some people just remember what it's like to grow up stifled by suburbia.

The opening band is truly terrible. I'm almost positive I've seen them open for another group before and they definitely haven't improved. Mark starts to fiddle with his camera a bit, but doesn't bother trying to capture any of these moments. We're sort of sitting around, me sipping on alcohol I bought because it makes me feel big. Violet eventually slides away for a moment and comes back with a fruity looking red drink. Girly booze. She offers some to Mark who shakes his head.

"I've got to drive." He says, giving me a reproachful look and then smiling.

It takes a while for the momentum of the night to get going, but eventually it does. Violet downs a couple more daquiris or whatever she's drinking and starts giggling at everything and making kissy faces at Mark's camera. The real band of the night took the stage after we'd been there about an hour and they weren't at all what I had been expecting. They weren't a local band, but a real rock band from the city. I couldn't figure out why the fuck they were out here. Although at this point I wasn't really in the mood to try to figure anything out. I really just wanted to dance. I downed the rest of my fourth beer and jumped up, hitting my knees on the table and laughing.

"We need to go dance." I tell Mark. He raises an eyebrow and looks over at Violet who giggles. He starts to make some witty comment back to me, but I grab his arm and pull him out with me to the midst of the dance floor. Neither one of us knows how to do anything dancewise but flail in place and accidentally hit other people, but we go with it and he laughs at me when I try to start singing to a song I've never heard before. I know I'm slightly drunk. I'm a terrible drunk too, with various mood swings and a pretty poor tolerance for alcohol in general.

Sweaty and tired, we head back to the table and to Violet after a couple songs to discover that she's found someone else to sit with.

"Julian!" I yell, breaking away from Mark and collapsing into a chair next to him. "How are you? What are you doing here, man?"

Julian jumps a little in surprise at my sudden presence but then grins in return.

"Hey, Roger," he says. "They're a great band, aren't they?"

I nod as Mark sits down next to me and takes his camera back from Vi. "This is what we should be, man," I tell him. "This should be us."

He smiles again and nods. "Definitely. This is where we need to be."

I offer to buy him a beer, but he declines and heads over to the bar for a Coke instead. He returns with one for Violet as well who smiles shyly in thanks. Julian asks Mark about his camera and sifts through a few of the shots he'd taken that evening, exchanging timid glances and smiles with Violet the entire time.

The night drags on and I'm hanging on Mark's shoulder by the band's second set, insisting we get up and dance again.

"It's a slow song." He whines, looking at Julian and Violet for help. Unfortunately for him, they're a million miles away from us at this point, laughing together over something as I'm dragging him away from the table again.

It's a good song, I guess, as slow songs go. My mind is sort of hazy and I'm in full idiot mode from the alcohol. Mark is absolutely set on not letting me slow dance with him, so I sway idly back and forth while leaning against him for the last minute or so of the song. The band picks up again on the next song and he joins back in on our awkward flailing. I start moving over into the space of some other people, taking a song with a nice looking girl with long red hair and then another with a guy far drunker than I am. Mark is cornered by a cute girl who makes him sway in a circle like a bad prom date to a fast song full of heavy guitar riffs. He's vaguely embarrassed by the time we're ready for another break, especially after I smack him on the ass on the way back to the table before throwing an arm around his shoulders, but also in a great mood, his cheeks pink from dancing all night and his hair sweaty and rumpled.

Violet and Julian go out to dance for a few songs and Mark and I huddle together back at the table to discuss the new development. Mark gets his camera out and sticks a new stack of film in to snap a few shots of them dancing. They look like two little kids and a lot less like drunken idiots than me and Mark. More like cookie cutter 50s kids at a sock hop or something. Mark gets up to grab a glass of water which he thankfully shares with me.

We relax for awhile taking in the music and the ambiance of dirty suburban rock clubs while I dream of being onstage at dirty city rock clubs with an awesome band behind me and a bar full of fans. I don't need to be some sort of Rolling Stone icon, I just want to be a part of the New York music scene. A big part of it.

Julian and Violet head back to our table looking just as sweaty and tired as we are. Julian grins at me.

"Let's just do it Monday," he says, dropping into the chair next to me. "They can figure out how to play those gigs on their own."

"You mean quit?" I ask. "Oh shit, yes! Monday!" I lean over and ruffle his mop of black hair, grinning like a fool.

Violet yawns behind her hand and Julian stands up.

"We're gonna go," Violet says with a wink. "Julian's driving me home." I reach out from my seat to wrap an arm around her waist briefly for an awkward hug with my head pressing against her stomach.

"Bye Vi." I laugh, letting her go. She squeezes Mark's shoulder and takes Julian's hand to head out and away from us. Anyone else but Julian would probably make me feel obligated to give some sort of brotherly lecture about treating my girl nice, especially since she's not exactly totally sober at the moment, but I know Julian well enough that I know it's unnecessary.

Mark and I decide to call it a night not long after, gathering our junk and staggering out to his car, hot and tired. The air outside is wonderfully cool when it hits my skin and I insist upon keeping the windows open when we drive.

We decide against going home and Mark takes us out to some back roads to just drive around for awhile. Some people really can't appreciate the idea of just driving around and wasting gas. I think it might purely be one of those things only suburban America understands.

"_When you're growing up in a small town, you say 'no one famous ever came from here'."_ I sing under my breath, leaning out the window to get better access to the fresh air. Mark laughs, giving me an odd look that I barely catch in the dark.

"This town eats hope," I tell him. "It just sucks all the inspiration out of people and leaves them to die. That's why people come to the suburbs, you know. To have kids and die."

"It could be worse," Mark says. "We're only an hour away from New York City. We could live in Kansas or something. What would you think of that?"

"There's no place like home." I mumble, letting my head thump down onto the arm I have resting on the edge of the open window. I think in song lyrics when I'm drunk, my head spinning with nonsense glam rock words and old country songs about drinking.

_"There's only one good use for a small town, you hate it, and you know you have to leave."_ I grumble to myself, thinking that Lou Reed and John Cale's lyrics sound especially poetic tonight while I start trying to remember the words to the songs on Johnny Cash's I Walk The Line album to distract me from the headache that has begun to throb behind my eyes. _I'm stuck in Folsom Prison and the time keeps draggin' on._

Mark starts to dig through his cassettes, maybe to find something to divert me from my own drunken bullshit, but I reach into the bag I brought with me and pull out a tape and shove it into his tape deck before he can protest. He doesn't seem to mind much. We've come to the basic agreement about music, respecting and appreciating each other's tastes even though they vary greatly in some areas.

"Did you ever notice how some music sounds like, way better in your car than anywhere else?" I ask him.

"Like Elvis Costello?" He offers.

"Like The Smiths," I say, gesturing to the tape deck. "I really mostly listen to them in my car. It just sounds better. And Velvet Underground. And some Lou Reed. Transformer is good in the car, but Berlin is more something to just lay around and listen to. Music is funny like that, you know?"

Mark nods with an understanding smile. We're both really tired and I'm getting increasingly incoherent by the minute.

"Sometimes I really feel like I'm misplaced in the world, you know? But it's weird. I feel like I'm missing something that I haven't really been a part of yet. Like I'm…" I hear myself talking and wonder what the fuck I'm saying. "I don't know. Like I'm homesick. But homesick for somewhere I've never lived."

Mark yawns. "How does that work? You can't miss something you've never had. How can you feel misplaced from somewhere you've never been?"

"But I am! I'm in the wrong place. Maybe in the wrong life." I pull myself back into the car, and roll up the window. The air is too cold for me now, sending pangs of chill down my spine. "Everything is just at a really strange place now."

Mark looks lost in thought, listening to me babble. "Do you feel like a spectator?" He asks softly, like an awkward admittance.

I shake my head. "No, I'm here. I'm in it."

Mark nods and goes back to counseling me, telling me I've probably just had a little too much to drink tonight and that I need to sleep it off. I know he's trying to calm me down so I don't start stressing out about whatever questions I've decided to start asking myself.

"When do you think we start meeting the people who are like, constants in our lives?" I ask, my words running together from fatigue and alcohol. "I mean, I've been waiting so long for people who like, stick around, you know? Friends and shit."

"You have friends." Mark says, failing to hide that he's slightly offended.

"I know but like, is this it? Are you the constant? Or are we going to drift after high school and I'll have to start over again?" I start to wish I'd brought a jacket as Mark turns down onto his street.

"Maybe you never find constants," Mark says thoughtfully. "Maybe the only people you can really rely on to stick around forever is your family."

I frown. "That's pretty depressing."

"You like your family." He yawns.

"I know, that's not what I mean. I don't mean family." I frown, squinting into the dark and trying to piece words together. "You know, making friends used to scare me because I hated the idea of people not being like, stable or something. It takes so much before you start to really trust someone and whatever and then what if they just leave? What are you supposed to do? You have to start over. You have to find someone else to spend time with until they get tired of you."

"Roger," Mark says sensibly. "No one is going to get tired of you. Maybe you're just afraid of getting tired of them."

I clam up, offended at his suggestion. I lean back into the seat, listening to the music for a few minutes.

"I just want a constant." I mumble as I feel my head dropping onto my shoulder as Mark pulls into the driveway. He makes a fussy, motherly sounding "Oh, Roger" at me and shakes me awake to stumble up to his room to sleep.


	8. Double Dates and Dance Parties

**Disclaimer:** I don't own RENT.

**Author's Note:** Of course it hasn't been over a year since we've updated. Where have you been?

This story will contain a female OC. She will be a main character. She also will not be "involved" with either Mark or Roger. Ever. She's there to bring them together and be cute. Seriously, we promise. She won't boink the boys.

**I Found a Reason  
Chapter Eight**_**–**__ Double Dates and Dance Parties  
_**Mark's POV**

I drag myself out of bed early on Sunday to get a head start on my history homework. It's rather unorthodox for me to even bother thinking about homework before at least 10pm, but I've got other things to do today, so I deal with it.

My mom is already awake, making more breakfast than three people need and listening to the radio in the kitchen. She hums along with some top 40 singer while I grab myself a plate and sit down next to my father. He's poring over the newspaper with his glasses low on his nose, fork poised in midair stabbed through a piece of forgotten pancake. He smiles when he notices me sitting beside him.

"Morning, Mark," he says, looking up a bit. "How's school going?"

My dad is a good guy. He's much closer to Cindy, but he's still good to joke around with a bit. Our conversations usually center around him handing out random pieces of advice, usually pertaining to money. I do well in school, which has always kept him happy with me and he even takes interest in my photography when he has time, which isn't frequently since he's a pediatrician with a private practice. He's hardly home during the week, but he'll probably be able to retire in a few years if he wants to.

"Pretty good," I tell him. "Midterms are in a couple weeks."

He smiles, leaning back in his chair. "You're doing alright in everything? You've been studying?"

I nod, starting in on my breakfast. "Me and my friends study a lot during lunch. They've been helping me a lot with Geometry, I'm really starting to get the hang of it." I'm embellishing a little bit. Our 'studying' is usually finishing up homework from the night before, cramming frantically for a test or climbing trees. But it is true that both Violet and Roger have helped me with Geometry, and it is also true that I've been doing marginally better with it recently.

Dad looks pleased. He smiles at me while I eat and then eventually buries his face into the paper once again.

"You should have your friends around for dinner sometime, Mark." My mother says, putting some toast on my plate.

I smirk, thinking of Roger attempting to behave himself in front of my mother and deciding it might be worth it if only for that.

"Sure, Mom. Maybe." I say to mollify her.

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I retreat back to my room and pull out my American History textbook. In class we have progressed from the Revolutionary War to briefly mention the War of 1812 and now we're into the Civil War era. After this unit we'll skip about 50 years to take us into World War I without bothering with the Spanish-American War or anything else in between. That's what I find interesting about America, all of our major history lessons are reliant on wars and the events leading up to them. We've spent two hundred years fighting. Maybe that's what all young nations do, but where's the culture fitting it all together? The only other things I ever remember from a history class are oppression, whether it be immigrants or slaves, and usually doing some sort of project on why we're proud to be American.

But it's hard to be an anti-patriot while staring down at a textbook on a Sunday in a wealthy neighborhood in New York. You can't even take yourself seriously. So I pop in a new mix tape Roger made me and start writing mini essays about Antietam, Stonewall Jackson and Bull Run.

My dad steps in for a few minutes to let me know he's heading out to work. Too many of my dad's patients know him well, so he's constantly called after hours and on weekends to help out sick kids or even counsel a neighbor with the flu, despite not really being their doctor. I don't begrudge him for it, since I know he loves being a doctor, although I think Cindy does a little. She never liked strangers cutting into time with her dad.

Dad smiles while looking down at me doing my homework early on a Sunday and offers to pick me up some more film for my Polaroid on his way home. He gets all excited when he sees me studying since he thinks so highly of getting a college education. Which I don't necessarily mind, although I can't possibly fathom what I'm going to go to college for yet.

I go back to studying history as soon as he leaves since midterms are the end of the month, I still have math homework and without Roger to coach me through difficult bits, math takes twice as long to sink in. Not that he doesn't have his own study worries. He left my house early yesterday looking rather frazzled and insisting he needed the entire day to work on his music theory composition project when I asked him if he wanted to do anything.

The mix tape ends and I sit through 3 more tapes before I'm finally finished for the day. Breathing a giant sigh of relief and actually enjoying the fact that I can stay out late tonight, I stretch and finally head towards the bathroom to take a shower. I still have visions of perpendicular bisectors dancing through my head while I stand under the hot water and I try desperately to think of something more fun and get my mind out of my study materials. I realize that my room could really use a little bit of straightening up before I call Violet. I start planning to organize a few areas, mainly my VHS collection that has been piling up in the corner of my room next to the VCR and also my books. I have a bad habit of not putting things away.

I towel my damp hair, leaving it to dry itself and pull on some clothes. After cleaning my glasses on my t-shirt I just grab the phone and call Vi, to let her know she can come over whenever she wants, and then head into my room to start cleaning.

I start with the movies, taking everything off the shelf and then sticking them all back on in no particular order. I find a few empty cases and have to hunt for the tapes, finding _Badlands_ under my bed and _Drug Store Cowboy _stashed in a drawer. I toss a sweater into my closet and pick up the books I've left out on my desk and stick them back in their proper place on my bookshelf. Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged gets put back on the top shelf along with Less Than Zero and Rules of Attraction. Orwell's 1984 shares a spot with Brave New World and I stick Cat's Cradle on the bottom where I keep all my Vonnegut together. I kick a pair of jeans under my bed as the doorbell rings. I run downstairs before Violet has to be subjected to my mother.

I don't quite make it though, and my mother gives me a questioning look when she invites Violet in, offering to take her jacket and asking if she's hungry. Vi winks at me and allows my mom to fuss over her for a couple minutes. We finally head upstairs with some Cokes and a couple bags of chips and I notice Violet has her big art portfolio with her in addition to her supplies.

"I hope you don't mind," she says. "I need to finish this painting. It shouldn't take too much longer."

"No, that's fine. I still need to get all the pictures ready anyway." I assure her, taking her box of supplies from her at the top of the stairs.

"How much did you bring?" I ask her, slightly incredulous at how heavy the box is. "We're making posters not building an art gallery."

Violet smiles and follows me into my room. "You never know, Mark."

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Sure enough, her mountains of art supplies come in handy. Earlier in the week we had decided to have a little fun with Roger's ego. Anyone nominated for homecoming court is allowed to encourage others to vote for them, be it through word of mouth or advertisement. We were fairly certain Roger either didn't care, or was pretending not to care, we weren't completely sure yet. But we did know he would never do it on his own, and it was too much fun to pass up.

I sift through the copies I've made of photos of Roger on and off stage, while she pokes at the last few details on her painting. Violet, being a bit more artistic than me had already drawn out outlines for some of our 'Vote for Roger' posters. We designed them like concert posters and nearly all of the pictures I had decided to use were Roger in various states of theatrical ridiculousness onstage.

"I thought the neon paper would be best," Violet says, touching up the corner of her painting. "It will stand out, even if it's ugly. I weathered the paper a little so they'll look like flyers that have been posted on dirty rock clubs for awhile."

I grin. "Awesome. If Roger's still talking to us after he sees them, he'll love it."

Violet smiles. "Sure, Mark. Roger would be mad at you until he realizes he'd have to get through gym class alone. He'd make up pretty quick."

"What about you?" I ask, picking up a little container of glitter and scrutinizing it. Violet winks.

"He better be nice if he ever wants to see his drummer again. I might just decide to keep him." She says with a smile, picking up a bottle of glue.

"To ensure maximum deflation of our subject's masculine ego, trace the outline with glue, then dump the glitter on it. Use a lot. Then pick up the paper and tip the extra back into the container." She demonstrates while she talks.

I snort. "Between the eyeliner and the tight pants you think he's going to mind a bit of glitter? You need to stop giving him ideas."

"I didn't put the thoughts into his head. I only encouraged them." She replies, while carefully filling in the lettering on a poster that says, 'Vote for Roger (it's easier than thinking)'.

"These might actually be kind of cool for real band posters, for Cro-mags Incorporated or whatever his band is called," I say thoughtfully. "Minus the glitter."

She laughs. "Who, Alchemy's Revenge? Didn't you hear? They broke up!"

I stop in the middle of my glittering. "For real?"

"Don't you remember?" She asks. "Roger and Julian decided just the other night, when we saw that band. They were going to wait until Monday but decided to just break it to them yesterday so they could start planning their new band straight away. Julian told me all about it last night."

I smirk. "Oh, _Julian_ told you, last _night_."

She wrinkles her nose at me. "You're such a boy, Mark."

I grin apologetically. "Are you bringing him to homecoming?"

She shrugs. "I didn't think about it. Are you and Roger going to go?"

I laugh. "Roger's already been asked by about twelve people. But I probably won't go."

Violet gives me a strange look. "Mark, you know Roger well enough to know that he's definitely not going to go with any of those girls."

I wave her off. "I know. But I've never been to a school dance in my life. I don't plan to start now."

"I'm not saying they're not ridiculous, but that's the whole point." Violet smiles as she completes a poster that says 'Vote for Roger (maybe now he'll notice you)'.

"Besides," she says. "We need to see Roger win his title."

I give in, helping Violet stack the posters and pack away her art supplies.

"We should go find Roger and Julian," she says. "They're at Julian's house, planning the band and finishing their theory homework. I'm pretty sure they won't mind us hanging around."

"Did Julian tell you that last night too?" I tease her.

She winks. "Keep it up and I'll tell Roger these were exclusively your idea, glitter and all."

I grin back at her, wanting to reach out and ruffle her hair affectionately the way Roger always does, but it feels too odd now that she has a boyfriend, and I've never been a pro at teasing girls like Roger, so I keep my hands to myself and help her carry her stuff down to her car.

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In Julian's garage, Roger is sprawled on an old couch humming to himself and writing out what I assume is his composition project for music theory. He's within reach of the old keyboard and keeps reaching out one hand absently to play a note or two, before smiling to himself and writing it down.

"What's he doing?" Violet asks Julian, who is writing out copies of what looks like a finished score.

Julian grins. "He's caught somewhere between composing a symphony and learning perfect pitch."

Roger spares them a moment for an affectionate smile before turning back to his work, then realizes that I had come in along with Violet. He shoves his pencil inside his composition book and stretches lazily.

"Hey Marky, you know Bb minor, right?" He asks, behind a yawn.

"Not personally." I reply, taking a Coke from Julian and snapping it open.

"Well, Julian thinks it's audacious of me to write my piece in the key of Bb minor," he explains. "So be a good best friend and stick up for me."

"I didn't say it was audacious to write in Bb minor," Julian says. "I thought it was audacious to write a full four and a half minutes of music when we were assigned all of thirty seconds."

"And counting." Roger grins smugly.

"He's been up all night," Julian tells Violet. "We need to get the boy a life."

"Or a girlfriend." I tease, dropping onto the couch beside him.

Roger ignores our jokes and pulls his guitar up onto the couch with him, spreading out his score sheets in front of him and picking out what I assume is a melody line. After a few minutes he leans back against the arm of the couch, puts his feet in my lap and rejoins the conversation.

"Is Vi making you come to our dance?" He asks Julian, even though a moment before the three of us had been discussing the new Debbie Harry album that had come out last month.

Violet rolls her eyes. "I hadn't asked him yet, Rog."

"We should all go," Roger declares. "Double date." He gives me a horribly suggestive wink.

"You're not taking any of the millions who subscribe to the Roger Davis fanclub?" I ask him in mock disbelief, still a bit hung up over the idea of someone who had girls falling at his feet but couldn't be bothered to care, or at least to notice.

"Not without pepper spray." He grumbles, but smiles good-naturedly when we laugh at him.

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The three of us sit out under our willow tree during lunch, swapping history notes and listening to Roger prattle on about his theory project. He's lying on his back with his head on my knee, history book propped up on his legs. His hair gel is smearing onto my cords, but I'm not really bothered, especially because I'll have a good laugh once Roger sits up and realizes his hair has gone flat in the back.

Violet and I had gotten to school early to hang up our posters, and Roger had finally caught sight of one on our way out of gym class. He stood in front of it, brow furrowed in concentration, as if he wasn't sure if he should be offended. After only a few moments he let out a big laugh and gave me his patented arm-punch of affection.

"You guys are jerks," he declared. "I can picture you two, holed up together listening to your geek rock and chewing your bubble gum debating over whether glitter or sequins would best hurt my ego."

I had shrugged and said nothing because after all, that was partly true. He took it as a silent confession and laughing heartily, bought me a Coke from the vending machine.

"Maybe me and Julian can incorporate glitter into our live show. You know, tie in the posters that I'm going to make you and Vi make for us."

I had groaned in mock exasperation, much to Roger's amusement, because after all, didn't I warn Violet?

I smile to myself and look down in time to notice that the glitter fiend is stealing my history notes for chapter twelve of the text.

"I can't allow you to klepto my notes, Rog," I tell him.

He frowns. "I was just planning to temporarily kidnap them," he protests. "You take much better notes than I do and your chapter test isn't until the end of the week."

I give up, knowing that I'll end up stealing his Geometry notes again once I actually crack open my book to start the homework.

The bell rings a few minutes later, and we head inside the building. Roger catches his reflection in a window just before we walk in and one hand goes to his hair, desperately trying to respike it while Violet and I snicker together behind him. He makes a face at us and gives up on his hair a moment later. We walk together through the crowded halls, checking out the posters of the competition on the walls and mocking them suitably. Some idiot had professional-looking laminated posters, but most were just notebook paper with 'Vote for ' written in pen.

"So we're all going to Homecoming?" I ask them as we pass a 'FREE DRINKS (Vote for Roger)' sign posted above the drinking fountain.

Roger grins. "It's going to be horrible."

"I suppose you mean horrible in the 'so laughingly bad that we have no choice but to declare it good' context?" I ask.

Violet smiles. "It wouldn't be a school dance otherwise."

We turn a corner and are mobbed by a couple girls from gym class. They have each torn down a 'Vote for Roger' poster and are holding markers.

"Roger, will you sign our posters?" One girl asks, holding it out to him expectantly.

Violet stifles her laughter behind a hand. I bite my tongue when Roger looks over at me for help, his face a mixture of annoyance and disbelief. I shrug, still trying not to laugh. Roger scowls at the girls and steps to his left so that he's a little behind me.

"Mark, tell them I have to go to class now." He demands, peering over my shoulder at the girls with a sour look on his face.

I roll my eyes at him. "Sorry girls," I say. "Roger will only sign autographs if he wins. So make sure you vote for him."

"We might even raffle off a date," Violet giggles. "Tell your friends."

The girls don't look sure whether or not to believe us, but they scamper off none the less, looking relatively enthused.

"Pathetic." Roger moans, burying his head in my shoulder as we continue down the hallway.

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When I pick up Roger on Friday night, I find he has not bothered to change his wardrobe much for the evening. He's done up like he's ready to go onstage, black jeans painted on like a second skin, eyes rimmed with messy liner. But he has somehow managed to find a truly horrible tight-fitting tuxedo t-shirt and some black suspenders to wear.

"You look ridiculous." I greet him.

"Charming way to speak to your date," he grins. "I take this to mean I was supposed to buy my own corsage too?"

"Obviously you didn't get the memo." I say, pulling out of his driveway and starting toward Violet's house to pick up her and Julian.

"Well now you're definitely not getting lucky tonight," he drawls while stretching, before kicking his feet up onto my dashboard. "Take me home, you scallawag!"

He takes a drink out of a whiskey flask he seems to have pulled out of nowhere and gives me a wicked grin. I roll my eyes at him and turn up the music.

When we get to the school Roger shoves his whiskey flask in the pocket of his tight pants and I shake my head when I see how noticeable it is.

"Roger, if you plan on sneaking that in, you're going to have to do better than that." I tell him, gesturing at his pocket.

Violet smiles knowingly and opens up her little handbag. Roger grins and drops his flask inside it.

"So that's why people have girlfriends." I muse, deciding against bringing my jacket in with me, content with wearing just my pinstriped pants, dress shirt and vest. I toss it back in the car and walk beside Roger toward the gym.

Inside it's horrible. Streamers, confetti, poorly painted banners with of the school mascot and the last of the 'Vote for Whoever' propaganda. It looks like school spirit tossed its cookies.

"I need a drink." Roger groans and out of sight from the chaperones, Violet passes him his flask.

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It's barely an hour into the dance, but so far I've managed to lose Vi and Julian in the crowd, Roger is so drunk I can't believe I'm the only one who's noticed and I've already seen five girls hurrying to the exits in tears, followed closely by confused, angry or frustrated boys. School dances are apparently ground zero for teenage girl meltdowns.

"Dance with me, Marky." Roger purrs in my ear, sneaking up behind me. Apparently he found the guy who snuck in orange juice cartons full with Screwdrivers. I mope over my misfortune at having a slutty drunk for a best friend for a moment before nudging him off and pulling him out of sight from a teacher that's giving him a suspicious look.

I finally catch sight of Violet and Julian, dancing together and giggling like 50s bandstand kids. I smile for a moment and then realize I still have a tipsy Roger who cannot keep his hands to himself halfway leaning on me and halfway trying to dance.

"How much did you have to drink?" I yell over the music.

He grins and shrugs. I shake my head but allow him to coax me into dancing with him. It's shitty mainstream pop music and it's hot as hell inside the gym, but I can't deny that the whole thing is so ridiculous it's sort of fun. We flail our way over toward Vi and Julian to get away from a girl who looks like she's had way too much to drink.

"They're going to announce the court soon, Rog," I yell. "You better start looking a little less shitfaced."

Sure enough, as soon as I've said it, the music cuts out and some girl from student council is up on stage with a microphone reading off nominations. Roger gets a substantial amount of screaming.

"I can't look." He moans, burying his head into the back of my neck, his arms wrapped around my shoulders. Violet pats his arm reassuringly, giggling over her shoulder at Julian.

Roger does not win his title, much to his chagrin.

"Michael Stevens?" He yells, holding onto my shoulder to steady himself. "Who the fuck is that?"

Violet dissolves into giggles into Julian's shoulder. I clap my hand over Roger's mouth and start to push him toward the back of the gym.

"How did I not win," he whines, when I have him safely tucked into a back corner near the bleachers. "I'm so hot."

"You're so drunk." I correct him, rolling my eyes. I lean against the bleachers and shove my hands in my pockets. Roger slumps against me.

"He's a tool." He mumbles.

I smile to myself. "He sure is, Rog."

Violet appears before us, Julian behind her. We all look a little worse for wear. Roger has started to sweat his hairgel out and it's seeping through the shoulder of my shirt. Julian's hair is sweaty and matted to his forehead and my glasses are foggy from the temperature in the gym. Our clothes are all relatively rumpled to some degree, except for Violet. I don't quite understand how girls manage to look like girls all the time. I'm sure at some point they take their makeup off and look bedraggled or tired or something, but I've never seen one in action. Not even my sister, and we lived in the same house most of our lives. I push my glasses up my nose and nudge Roger so he stands up straighter.

"You guys wanna get out of here?" Violet asks us.

I smirk. "You mean before Roger pitches another queen-sized fit?"

"You're all tools." Roger growls, looking more than vaguely put out.

"Love you too, buddy." I retort before turning back to Violet.

"The night is young, where do you guys want to go?" I ask them. Julian shrugs amiably and looks expectantly toward Violet. I'm about to suggest heading back to someone's house when Roger grabs my arm.

"Parking lot dance party?" He suggests before his usual charming grin slides back on his face, bitter declarations of us being tools forgotten, at least for now.

We start heading outside, Roger with his arms thrown around my shoulders to enable him to walk without stumbling. My car is parked way in the back lot, which allows us plenty of dancing room and a relative amount of privacy. I get in and roll down the windows in the front of the car and sift through my glove compartment for a minute. Roger collapses on the ground and slumps against my car, rubbing his head.

"Well, we've got the radio, B52's or I have a Buzzcocks tape in here too," I tell them. "Roger you must have left this here."

He turns his head back in my direction, his hands covering his eyes. "Which one?"

"_Love Bites_." I call out to him, holding it out the window.

"Well stick it in!" He calls back, yawning the second half of the sentence and folding his arms behind his head.

"Aren't you going to dance, Roger?" Violet asks him.

He waves her off. "In a minute. I drank too much."

He looks up at me when I get out of the car. "Hey, I didn't leave any cloves or anything in there, did I?"

"You're such a mess," I tease him, but reach back into the car and find a pack of his Djarum Blacks under the front passenger seat. I slam the door shut and join Roger on the ground, handing him the pack. He mumbles a thank you and arches his back a bit to dig a lighter out of his pocket before settling beside me again and lighting one up.

Vi and Julian have forgotten us, dancing together in the bright field of pavement made by my headlights. Roger balances a cigarette between his fingers and massages his temple with his other hand.

"You alright?" I ask him, bringing my knees up to my chest and resting my arms on top of them.

He nods and gives me a small smile, leaning into my shoulder. "I just need to sit a minute," he says."

"Are you planning on moving into my car?" I tease him. "You leave your cigarettes and your albums in there, and I think I have half of your bedroom in my backseat."

He looks up at me with interest. "Do you have my jeans? The tight, ripped ones?"

"Rog, that's every pair of jeans you own," I grin. "But yeah, they're definitely in there."

We sit for a few minutes, watching our friends dance, Roger singing softly under his breath. I frown and look down at him.

"Why are your pants in my car?" I ask him.

He grins wickedly and looks up at me. "Don't you remember when we got kinky in the backseat of your car after dropping off our friends on the night of a truly horrible school dance?"

"Not particularly?" I answer, staring at him and wondering how drunk he really is.

"Oh well, of course not," he laughs. "Because that's tonight. Silly me."

"You're such a charmer, Rog." I sigh, extending my arms over my head to stretch my back. "I still don't understand how your pants got into my car."

"There's a lot of things I don't understand," he drawls, yawning again. "Like why I continue to hang around geeks who don't laugh at my jokes."

"You have to make some before I can laugh at them." I shoot back, but am unable to keep the smile off my face. Roger returns it before taking another drag on his cigarette. He looks up at Vi and Julian.

"Hey," he yells over the music. "You guys up for some karaoke?"

"Fuck, no." I groan, but Roger ignores me. The others seem interested, much to my disappointment. We pile into my car, Roger insisting he knows a good place and Julian smirking knowingly and whispering something to Violet. We leave the Buzzcocks tape blaring on my stereo and drive away from the high school.

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Roger, sadly, seems to have recovered from his alcohol consumption at this point, and is ready for more fun. Fucking rockstar. Why can't he just be a homebody that likes to eat chips and watch indie movies?

Roger directs us to a dive bar with all night karaoke and practically no one around but a few regulars. The bartender looks like he's going to kick us out, then seems to recognize Roger and smiles slightly. Roger strolls up to the bar smiling widely with us in tow.

"Give me the best draft in the house and your shot with the dirtiest name." Roger says.

The bartender smirks. He snaps his fingers at the bar back. "Get a round of Cokes for the kids."

Roger makes a face and the bartender laughs. "Sorry kid. We'll slip some grenadine in there. Make 'em Cherry Cokes, okay?"

We join Roger at the bar where he introduces us to Stephen the bartender, who apparently is a friend of his mom's.

"Come to sing us some more Diana Ross?" He asks. "You bring The Supremes with you this time?"

Roger grins. "Nah, I'm thinking more modern. You got any Pat Benatar?"

Some big guy is eyeing Violet unabashedly. She finally notices and gives him a sour face, grabbing Julian's hand in defiance. Julian smiles at her and then leans his head down against her shoulder.

While I was watching Vi and Julian, Roger had made his way up to the little platform that might have been a stage and was flipping through the song book. I groan, especially as I'm being dragged by Vi and Julian to the tiny dance floor in front of the stage.

"What if it's a ballad?" I ask, but I'm drowned out by the beginning drumbeat of what I can only hope isn't 'Love is a Battlefield.'.

Roger grins and pulls an ancient microphone out of its stand.

"_We are young_," he purrs into the microphone. "_Heartache to heartache, we stand_."

"Oh, hell." I moan, but I soon forget myself, getting pulled by Violet into a dance party of three.

"_Woah woah woah…_"

Violet is doing a cute little dance, snapping her fingers and kicking her feet in rhythm with the music. Julian tries to mimic her, and fails miserably. He decides to join in with my awkward swaying.

"_Woah woah woah wooooah_!_ We are STRONG_!"

I can't help but laugh. Violet grabs my hand and puts her other hand on my shoulder, leading me around in a fast circle in time with the music. Julian grins widely and continues to dance on his own.

"_Searchin' our hearts for so long, both of us knowing love is a battlefield_?" Roger sings, rocking his hips and snapping in a way that wouldn't be cool in the slightest if it was anybody else. I look away from my friends at the rest of the bar and notice even a couple of the gruff looking working-stiff guys look interested, although most look like they want to kill the punk onstage. Stephen the bartender looks very amused. He leans over to talk to a regular and chuckles amiably, both looking in the direction of the stage.

"_But if we get much closer, I could lose control and if your heart surrenders, you'll need me to hold_." Roger stamps his feet a couple times and then goes into the dance break, shimmying with his arms bent out at his sides before doing a couple knee raises and pumping the air with his fist in beat with the music. Violet cannot contain herself, she tries to imitate him and then Julian and I imitate her and all three of us look completely ridiculous. Roger is bent over slightly, snapping and swaying before straightening up and punching a fist out at the bar.

"_We are young! Heartache to heartache we stand_."

He continues to dance while he finishes the song, much to the delight of a few female barflies a couple years older than us. When he jumps down from the stage a few people clap and one of the guys at the bar asks his buddy, "Now can we go?"

We grab our Cokes and take a table away from the bar, laughing at each other and giving Roger shit for dancing to pop songs. He doesn't seem phased, grinning at us like he always does and leaning onto the back legs of his chair, his feet up on the table. His eyeliner is smudged horribly and his hair is matted and flat in places but for once he doesn't seem to mind. We order ourselves another round of grenadine laced Coke from the bar and bullshit a while longer, listening to drunk girls warble out disco anthems before heading out around half past midnight.

It's a bit colder outside now than when we left the high school and Julian wraps his coat around Violet's shoulders before we climb back into my car. Roger nods off with his head against the window, Vi and Julian are talking together in the backseat and I'm listening to Roger's Buzzcocks tape still, blinking wearily at the road in front of me, thinking wistfully about a warm bed even though it's not really all that late.

When I drop off Vi and Julian at her house Roger wakes up long enough to get a hug from Violet before falling back into my car. She hugs me too and messes up my hair, winking cheekily at me before heading over to meet Julian by his car. He waves a goodbye to me and I return it before joining Roger in my car.

Roger yawns and stretches, before sliding low in the seat and putting his feet up on the dashboard. He smiles and looks over at me.

"Want to come over for awhile? Or at you done for tonight?" He asks, lighting up another of his cigarettes.

"If I come over now I'm spending the night," I warn him. "And I'll have to call my mom. She's expecting me home."

Roger shrugs. "No problem. You hungry? We should do a food run."

My stomach growls in agreement so we head off to a convenience store and stock up on various sodas, chips and a bag of cookies. The clerk lets us take our pick of slightly stale donuts and bagels from the day before for free and we pay up and leave together, each of us snapping open a soda on the way back to my car.

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At Roger's house we do our best to keep quiet, knowing his sisters and parents are asleep. I use his phone to call home while Roger raids his kitchen for more food. My father answers the phone half asleep and hangs up almost as soon as he knows where I am but I think he was pleased that I called none the less. I join Roger in front of his fridge where he has assembled the makings of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

"I think we have ice cream too," he says, his head buried in the freezer. "You're up for ice cream, right?"

"Sure." I yawn, taking some stuff to help carry upstairs, including the whole carton of ice cream and some fudge syrup.

We assemble our food on Roger's nightstand and put on one of his Velvet Underground records before flopping onto his bed and digging into our stash. Roger manages to smoke while eating and also sing softly under his breath to the record. We eat our sandwiches and snack on some chips before pouring the chocolate syrup into the ice cream container and setting it between us on the bed. We take turns digging it out with spoons before moving on to the chips and such we bought from the convenience store. Eventually, Roger yawns and slumps down next to me, his head landing on my arm, still clutching his last cigarette. Carefully, I pull it from his fingers and stub it out on the ashtray next to his bed. I disentangle myself from Roger and get up to shut off his light. I flip the record and then grab one of his pillows and collapse on the end of his bed. Absently I toss one of Roger's blankets over in his direction. Stretching and letting out another yawn, I pull my glasses off and set them on the floor next to the bed.

I blink a few times, adjusting to the lack of light and also my lack of vision correction. All in all, not a bad night. Sure the dance was pretty much a bust, but leave it to Roger to have at least a couple of back up plans. It was actually a good time, dancing to Roger singing Pat Benatar songs and getting a chance to meet Julian properly. I smirked into the pillow. It was worth it just to watch Roger get drunk and actually throw a mild fit over not being voted Homecoming royalty or whatever. I give one final yawn and turn on my side.

Whatever. There's always prom king.


	9. Pointless Vandalism and Panic Attacks

**Disclaimer:** I don't own RENT.

**Author's Note:** Yeah, okay. So... it's not like it was an entire year this time.

This story will contain a female OC. She will be a main character. She also will not be "involved" with either Mark or Roger. Ever. She's there to bring them together and be cute. Seriously, we promise. She won't boink the boys.

**I Found a Reason  
Chapter Nine**_**– **__Pointless Vandalism and Panic Attacks  
_**Roger's POV**

Despite however significantly more productive Mark and I find skipping gym to be, by the time midterms rolled around, we realized how much we had screwed ourselves.

Which is how we ended up begging Mark's dad, a pediatrician, to write us passes out of gym for the rest of the semester. It's been a good forty minutes at this point, and so far Mark hasn't managed to make much of a dent in his father's refusal to endorse our inability to go to class.

"Dad, this isn't like math or science. You can't _study_ for gym. There's no way I'll be able to pass," Mark says, looking imploringly at his father. "I'm physically incapable of performing at an acceptable level and I feel that it is profoundly unfair of a biased school system to force me to do so."

Mr. Cohen isn't exactly pleased at our predicament, but he isn't mad either. It might be safe to say he's at least mildly amused. He crosses his arms over his chest and peers down at Mark over his glasses.

"You mean to believe that a healthy young man like yourself is incapable of meeting New York State's fitness requirements?"

"Exactly," Mark says, pushing his glasses up his nose.

"Come on now, son," Mr. Cohen says, attempting to hide a smile. "What's the big deal about a couple of push-ups?"

Mark scowls. "Dad, have you ever _done _push-ups? Or chin-ups for that matter? They're a systematic way of torturing the subculture of students who would rather study than work out."

"So now it's a conspiracy?" asks Mr. Cohen.

"A bunch of embittered jocks who were whacked on the knuckles by nuns a few too many times created some menial exercises in order to humble the people who actually work hard at every other aspect of life," Mark says. "Obviously."

Mark's dad cracks a smile. He looks over at me.

"And what's your excuse?" He asks, his eyebrows raised expectantly.

"Exercise gives me panic attacks," I tell him solemnly. "If my body overexerts itself, I hyperventilate and lose control of my emotional intelligence."

"He cries like a little girl," Mark adds, and I resist the urge to shove him or make a face.

Mr. Cohen considers, scrutinizing us with narrowed eyes, but also with a small smile.

"Boys, I don't think much of giving you a free ride for the rest of the semester," he sighs. "But I don't want you to fail either."

He gives another heavy sigh. "I'll write you out of the midterms and final, but I'm recommending you for the remedial gym program."

Inwardly, I cringe. Remedial gym is for fat kids with asthma and medical conditions. Occasionally someone with a broken arm finds their way in. The activities are pretty much either walking around the track during gym or throwing dodge balls at each other inside. They might be allowed to play tennis, I don't remember. Annoying, but definitely better than running laps or playing basketball. Except that remedial gym is a lot harder to skip since it's heavily monitored due to the increased chance of a medical emergency.

Mark looks like he's going to argue some more, then looks over at me. I shrug and he relents. We both assume this is about as good as it's going to get for us at this point and take the deal. On our way upstairs we hear Mark's parents laughing good-naturedly at us in the kitchen.

"Well, damn," Mark says.

I shrug. "Hey, no more chin-ups and no more mile running. I can pretend to be asthmatic for forty minutes a day."

Mark sighs. "I guess that's all that really matters."

"Violet actually goes to gym," I tell him, collapsing on his bed and stretching. "She must be part of the athletic plot to overthrow the educated."

"She's probably a spy," Mark says absently, popping a tape into his stereo before joining me on the bed.

"What are we going to do next semester?" I ask him, stealing a pillow.

He shrugs. "There's no way he'll write us more passes. We'll have to really develop a paranoid fear of dumbbells or something."

"Maybe we should practice our push-ups," I offer.

"It's too bad we can't pay big jocky guys to take gym for us like big jocky guys can pay smart kids to write papers or take tests for them," Mark says, almost wistfully.

"It's a flawed system, what are you gonna do?"

Mark frowns. "Shit, now I have to get up ten minutes earlier to make sure I have enough time to change before gym."

"Ten minutes? That might be grounds for suicide." I tease him. He looks so put out by the idea of losing out on a miniscule amount of sleep I almost feel bad.

He recovers quickly, singing along off key to the Elvis Costello tape that's playing for a while before he finally looks over at me.

"It's Halloween soon," he says. "Are you a Halloween person?"

I nod. "Of course. Molly loves it, I take her trick-or-treating every year," I tell him. "Which reminds me, my mom bought her a fucking terrible princess costume."

"What's so terrible about princesses?" Mark asks. "Little girls love princesses."

"Yeah, and every other little girl in the country will be dressed like a princess. Molly's way too cool for that shit."

Mark raises an eyebrow cynically. "Don't you think you should wait until she's at least in junior high before trying to teach her how to buck the system? Six year olds aren't exactly wired for that yet."

I stare at him. "Mark, it's not anarchy, it's a Halloween costume."

He rolls his eyes and leans back onto his pillow. "You want to watch a movie or something?" He asks me.

I shrug. "Sure, toss whatever grainy-picture-with-no-plot movie you want in. I'm not going to understand it anyway." I grin at him so he knows I'm joking.

He makes a face at me, but drags himself off the bed and picks one of his movies out.

"Hey, I have some new pictures, you want to see them?" He asks while he puts a movie in the VCR.

"You know I do, bring 'em over," I say. "Unless they're the ones of me shirtless looking like I've been hit by a car. No one ever needs to see those."

He smirks. "It's not my fault you decided to lay around my house hung over after two days of heavy drinking. I got bored listening to you moan, and you looked photogenic. Sorry buddy."

"It's not art, it's blackmail," I grumble, scowling at him, but he laughs me off and joins me on the bed again, bringing a new box of photos. Some Polaroids and some from a higher quality camera. He picks up the top stack and hands them to me carefully. I sift through them while he narrates.

"I took these with my dad's camera in the park. I know you hate fall, but aren't the colours awesome?" He looks at me inquiringly and I nod, staring down at the pictures.

Mark goes on about framing and whatever and I smile, listening to him. The guy loves his art. And he definitely knows what he's talking about, though I don't follow a word of it. It's probably how he feels whenever I go off about music.

We dig through pictures for the better part of an hour, completely forgetting about whatever movie Mark put on.

"Aren't there other people you can take pictures of?" I ask him, after seeing another roll of film of me and Violet studying. I'm starting to believe that I simply cannot make a normal face when there's a camera pointed at me. I really need to learn how to pose or something. I have album covers to think about in the future.

Mark smiles shyly. "Well yeah, but I've never had good friends before. Well, uh, I mean I've had _friends_, obviously. But not like, really good ones? I mean…" he trails off, unsure of how to word it.

"I know what you mean, Marky," I grin at him and he relaxes, relieved from the stress of trying to explain our current situation. "I've never had best friends either. Maybe when I was like, five. But not since then."

We flip through the pictures for a few more minutes, I steal a couple of Violet and Mark, and one of me and Mark that Violet took. We settle back onto the bed and try to watch the movie, but at this point my attention span is not settling for a movie, and I have absolutely no idea what's going on. Even Mark looks disinterested.

"Hey, you know what we should do for Halloween?" I ask, looking over at Mark.

He smirks. "Hopefully this won't be one of your ideas that if executed would end up with us serving time in juvy."

"At least you'd get laid," I reply, grinning when I can tell he's trying to will his face not to redden. "But no, you and Violet should come out with me and Molly. Then we can go see a slasher flick or something."

Mark wrinkles his nose. "A slasher? Isn't there anything else playing?"

I roll my eyes. "Well, yeah, obviously. But it's _Halloween_. You can't just go see like, a romantic comedy or something. You have to watch people die. That's the point of the holiday. Don't you want to watch people die?"

"I guess so?" he says, smiling awkwardly. Then he shrugs. "Yeah, whatever. I'm up for gore."

* * *

I walk beside Julian, absently kicking dead leaves out of my way. Fall has arrived full force and I'm grateful I thought to wear my leather jacket before venturing out. As he walks, Julian rifles through our dwindling supply of posters, advertising our need of decent band members, that Mark and Vi had made for us.

"Where else do you want to put some?" He asks, looking over at me from underneath his dark mop of hair as we head back to his car.

"Well, we've gotten just about every record store, club and guitar shop within about 30 miles," I say, thinking out loud. "Maybe we can stick a couple more up near your high school on the way back."

"You think anyone will call?" He asks, shoving the posters under his arm and putting his hands in his pockets.

"I hope so," I shrug. "There's got to be some other decent musicians out here. If not, we'll expand our search, put some up in the city. It would be more convenient to join up with someone nearby, but the city's only an hour away, it wouldn't be a big deal."

"Guess you're right." He says, giving me a half-hearted smile. I can't tell if he's sharing my anxiety about the band or if it's something else.

"What's up, man?" I ask him. "The guys giving you shit or something?"

He shakes his head. "Nah, We don't really talk. I don't think it's that much a loss," he adds absently.

"We only _really_ need a decent bass player, anyway," he says, changing the subject and looking less melancholy. "Since you're going to play lead. Rhythm would be nice, but not necessary. And anyone can play rhythm, we can add someone later if we want."

"Yeah, there's that," I agree. "I just want someone who's not a complete waste of space."

"Anyone who's even _heard_ of The Stooges would be nice." Julian sighs wistfully.

"Anyone who has progressed past the Zeppelin stage of male development." I add and he nods solemnly.

I am of the firm belief that every man (except maybe Mark) goes through a Zeppelin stage. Some of us progress past this and emerge as musically mature individuals. Some of us never leave this stage and will spend the rest of our lives believing that cock rock is a genre of musical integrity. I'm not saying that Zeppelin isn't a decent band. I definitely had a Zeppelin stage. It was a couple weeks stashed between a brief affair with my mom's Laura Nyro records and my discovery of glam rock. Not a time period I'm fond of, but there's no use denying it happened. There is definitely worse music for a man to be passionate about.

"Maybe we can get a major Bowie fan," I joke. "Then we'll have a trifecta of rock power. Lou, Iggy and Bowie."

"It will make compromising on cover songs a lot easier," Julian says with a smile. "We'll all get along musically. You can sing Stooges songs, right?"

"With or without the stage diving, indecent exposure, drug use and self-injury?" I ask, grinning.

He laughs. "Well I'm not going to oppose a good, healthy bout of stage diving, or even crowd flashing. But please don't bleed or vomit on me."

* * *

After school on Monday, we go thrifting for Halloween costumes. When I told Molly I was bringing Mark and Vi trick-or-treating with us she got really excited and then insisted that we need to dress up as well. Since I can never say no to my little sisters, I decided to go for it, and luckily for me, Mark and Violet were up for some fun as well.

I descend upon a rack of jeans when we get there, and immediately try to find a couple good pairs of black ones. Now that it's nearly winter and I can wear my leather jacket everywhere I can start trying to copy Lou Reed's look circa the late 60s. I find a good pair and duck into a fitting room to pull them on. After a good deal of effort, I take a look in the cracked mirror and grin. Like a second skin.

When I emerge, still wearing the pants, Violet is wearing a tophat and flipping through a rack of skirts. Mark has discovered an old looking camera thing. I saunter over to him to stare over his shoulder. He acknowledges me briefly, then does a double take when he sees I've changed pants.

"How are you breathing?" He asks.

"Stop staring at my crotch, Marky," I tease him, and reaching out, I steal the camera away from him while he rolls his eyes, far from embarrassed.

"What the hell is this?" I ask him, turning it over in my hands.

He shrugs. "I don't know. It's a camera. Isn't it awesome?"

I pretend I'm filming him. "You know how to use this? You know this takes pictures that move, right?"

He puts his hand up in front of his face to block the camera, even though it's clearly not running. "I don't know much about filmmaking," he admits. "But it's cool, right?"

I laugh at him and toss it back. "You're going to make movies now?"

He smiles distantly and shrugs one shoulder. "I have no idea. But I feel compelled to buy this. This might be what I need, you know? I'll need a projector though, too. Maybe my dad would know where to get one."

I ruffle his hair affectionately and lead him over to where Violet is.

"You think they'll let me buy these while I'm wearing them?" I ask him as we sneak up behind Violet.

"If you're trying to scare me, don't bother. I could hear you boys coming a mile away," Violet says, looking over her shoulder at us. I cross my arms and lean against a bookshelf next to her.

"What'd you find?" I ask her. She smiles and holds up a can of silver hairspray paint.

"We should dress Mark up like Andy Warhol," she suggests, and I grin and grab the can from her and give it a shake. It still has a good amount of paint in it.

Mark raises an eyebrow and looks doubtful. "You're going to put that in my hair?"

I move closer to inspect his hair. "Yeah, definitely. It will totally work."

"How do you know? Do you frequently spray paint your hair?" He takes the can from me and examines the label.

"Marky, it's not spray paint. It's _hair_spray paint. It's supposed to be put on your hair," I assure him.

He rolls his eyes. "Alright, whatever. Who are you going to be?"

"We should all be people who hung around The Factory," Violet says and I nod in agreement.

"You can be Nico," I tell her and she smiles.

Mark laughs at me. "And you can pretend to be Lou Reed, like you do everyday."

"These pants are perfect. I need some aviators." I announce, and head toward the back of the thrift store, trying to find where they keep their sunglasses. I can hear Mark and Violet talking about the camera he found behind me.

I dig through a bin full of sunglasses, picking out a couple pairs to try on in front of the mirror. When I join up with Mark and Violet again, Vi has ditched the top hat and is now wearing a long, blonde wig.

"That looks great," I tell her. "Good wig for a thrift store find."

"Are you going to paint your hair black?" Mark asks me. I turn around and frown at my reflection in the mirror. I try on one of the pairs of aviators and slump against the wall with my hands in the pockets of my leather jacket, scowling. Satisfied, I turn back to my friends.

"Nah. If I had time to grow a jewfro I might, but it won't look right anyway. I think he bleached his hair a couple times. So whatever." I tell them.

While Mark and Vi argue over what Nico would wear I flip through another rack of pants and to my delight find a pair of leather pants that look about my size.

"Roger, no," Mark says from behind me. "Put those back."

I turn around, frowning. "What?"

He points at the pants. "Come on, Rog. Rock stars who wear leather pants always end up dying alone in their late twenties face down in their own vomit. Do you really want to take that chance?"

"Besides," Violet says, joining us. "Mark is going to make fun of you every time you wear them. Can your self-esteem really handle that?"

I pout, but give up and put the leather pants back. Why do I have friends?

Finally, once we've all picked out some stuff for our costumes and I've dug through the used records and found myself some Johnny Cash, and an album called Kill City I told Violet to give to Julian, we check out and head back to my car.

"So, should we just come over to your house after school tomorrow?" Mark asks.

"Yeah, that works. If you guys want I can drive us all to school, then we only have one car," I offer.

Mark looks mortified. "You're going to have to get up early."

Violet laughs at him. "Mark, there's an entire subculture of morning people out there."

"Tell you what, Marky," I say. "Just so you can get your beauty sleep, I'll pick up Violet before you, even though it would make more sense to go your direction first."

I grin at him when he looks guilty and starts to protest. "No, for real. Please get your extra fifteen minutes of sleep. I want you wide awake for our first day of remedial gym."

"Remedial gym?" Violet asks. "How did that happen?"

"Well apparently to pass gym, you actually have to go," Mark says.

"Apparently taking turns listening to Mark's walkman isn't considered cardio," I add.

Violet shakes her head, digging some gum out of her purse and offering it to us. "You boys are unbelievable."

"Hey, we do alright in everything else," I protest. "We just have better things to do than throw basketballs at each other and grunt."

We joke around for a while longer, comparing how much homework we have. I agree to drive over to Mark's house later if he has trouble with Geometry, although I know I'll probably end up over there later anyway. We have a way of finding excuses to hang out.

"Hey Vi, can you bring some blue or purple eye makeup shit over tomorrow?" I ask her.

She nods, smiling slightly. "Sure, Rog. But I don't think it would be too cute on you."

"It's not for me." I tell her and she shrugs at Mark but agrees.

Violet examines the albums she bought for Julian. "What is this, anyway?"

I grin. "It's Iggy Pop and James Williamson. His was scratched and old when he bought it and it doesn't really play anymore. He's been looking for a new one for awhile, so let me warn you, he might tackle you."

She smiles and pops her gum. "Well thanks, Roger."

"Anytime," I say with a wicked grin. "Let me know if you get lucky."

Mark groans while Violet laughs. "You're such a boy."

I make a face at him. "Don't be such a wet blanket, Marky. We're all red-blooded teenagers here."

"If you're going to defend my honour, Mark, at least climb to the top of the water tower or something. Then I'd know you really care," Violet teases.

"You can use your hairspray paint!" I add.

Mark can't help himself, his cheeks go a bit pink at our teasing. I relent and offer to buy us a pizza for our Geometry (or not) party later.

I clear my throat and give Violet a serious look. "I may joke, girly, but you better not be getting up to any shenanigans with our dear friend Julian."

"Shenanigans? No." She assures me and I smile, satisfied. She giggles. "Other scandalous behavior? Maybe."

"Don't tell him anything or he'll go into big brother mode and start threatening to beat up every guy within a 30 mile radius," Mark tells her quickly and I scowl, realizing they've turned my teasing back onto me.

We drop Violet off a couple minutes later and I tell her to let Julian know I'm keeping an eye on him. Mark takes her place in the front seat and we argue briefly over what tape to listen to. I'm all for some Smiths right now, but Mark is in the mood for something more upbeat.

"If you shut up, I'll get drunk and let you take Polaroids of me again," I tell him. "As long as you promise you're never going to sell them to the Enquirer or something."

"I assure you, they're for my own personal use," Mark says, grinning.

I roll my eyes. "You need a hobby."

"You want to come over now?" Mark asks. "Because, you know you'll be back in like, three hours anyway."

"We can't keep meeting like this," I say. "You really need to find a new tutor."

"One that I'm not perilously attracted to?" He deadpans.

"You might get more work done. You might even pass Geometry," I point out.

Mark nods solemnly. "Because let's face it, you know we're going to eat pizza and talk about music for the next five hours. We'll be lucky if our Geometry books get a sideways glance."

I start laughing. I can only keep up with Mark's dry brand of humour for so long. He sees me break and laughs as well.

He turns the volume on my stereo up. "So what do you want on this pizza you're buying me?" He asks.

* * *

After school on Tuesday, Mark changes in my room and Violet takes the upstairs bathroom. I just wore my "costume" to school, since I was basically wearing my regular clothes anyway. When they emerge, Violet and I corner Mark with the silver hair paint and reduce his shaggy blond hair to a silver mess, that Violet effectively styles to look pretty convincingly like a Warhol wig. Violet hands me a compact of various blue and purple eye shadows. I leave them in my room for a minute while I grab Molly, who has been jumping around us since we got home demanding to know when we're going to leave.

I dig through her closet and come up with a bright coloured shirt and some jeans.

"Here, little girl. Get dressed and I'll be right back." I tell her, messing up her hair as I duck out of her room for minute to say hi to my mom and Audrey.

Mom is in the kitchen with Audrey on her hip, assembling the bucket of candy to hand out to trick-or-treaters. I try to steal a couple pieces and she slaps my hand lightly.

"This is for the neighborhood kids," she says. "There's cookies cooling on the counter for you and your friends if you want."

My mom knows I substantially prefer cookies to candy. Which pretty much makes her amazing. I kiss her cheek and go over to take a plate of cookies upstairs. I eat one and make faces at Audrey who laughs and claps her hands. My mom smiles over her shoulder at me.

"Thanks for taking Molly out," she says. "What are you dressing her up as?"

I grin at her. "Debbie Harry."

She rolls her eyes good-naturedly. "She couldn't be a princess, but she can be Debbie Harry?"

"If it makes you feel better I'll call her Princess Debbie all night," I tell her, while Audrey's little hands grab at my fingers.

"No you won't," Mom says. "You'll sing Blondie songs to her all night, buy her milkshakes and feed her candy until she bursts."

"And then I'll bring her home and leave her to you to calm down," I laugh. "We're going into the city to eat and see a movie later."

She smiles. "Have fun. If you're out past midnight or stay somewhere else, call me."

I tickle Audrey one more time. "Of course, Mom."

Upstairs I leave the plate of cookies in my room for Mark and Violet and grab a can of hairspray and a comb out of the bathroom.

Molly is jumping on her bed when I go into her room again. She's put on a couple pieces of chunky little kid jewelry.

"Hey girlie, you know what I told you about jumping on the bed. You're going to fall."

"You're no fun," she pouts, but jumps one more time before sitting down and sliding off her bed and running over to me.

"I get makeup?" She asks, seeing the compact Vi gave me.

"For tonight only," I tell her. "What do I say about makeup?"

She sighs and crosses her little arms. "No makeup and no boys until I'm a million years old."

"Damn right," I agree. "Boys have cooties. Come here, I'll do your hair."

She comes over and stands in front of me. I tell her to close her eyes and spray her head with the hairspray, using the comb to tease her blonde hair.

"Do I look pretty?" She asks, while I'm teasing her bangs.

"Beautiful." I assure her. "You're a little rock star."

I look down at the makeup compact and pick up the little brush inside. I realize I have no idea how to put this shit on.

"I'll be right back," I tell Molly. I turn her so she's facing the mirror in her room. "Killer, huh? You look awesome."

I head back to my room where Mark is shotgunning cookies and listening to Violet talk about an art project. I motion for them to follow me and hand the makeup to Violet.

"You have to put this on Molly. I don't get it."

Violet laughs at me and we head back in my sister's room. Molly is dancing in front of the mirror. I sneak up behind her and pick her up. She squeals at me and giggles.

"Hey, you remember Violet, right? She's going to put your makeup on, okay?" I tell Molly who smiles widely when she sees Violet.

Mark and I watch bemused while Violet instructs Molly to close her eyes and swipes the eye shadow on her effortlessly.

"You know, Molly," Violet says. "If it's okay with your big brother, I have some mascara and lipgloss if you want."

"Go for it, it's Halloween," I relent. "But just today, okay Molly?"

My little sister actually rolls her eyes at me and lets out a big sigh before grinning widely and Violet digs a couple things out of her purse and brings Molly back over to the mirror.

Finally, we're all dressed and ready to leave. I grab a pillowcase for Molly to put her candy in and we head out.

"What did you dress up as when you were a kid?" Mark asks me while Molly is talking a mile a minute to Violet.

"I was Indiana Jones once," I say, thinking back. "My mom made an awesome costume. And I remember in like, junior high I came to school as Morrissey and no one knew who I was. It was a pretty nondescript costume. And I think I was Batman when I was a little kid."

"Batman?" Mark asks skeptically. "Why Batman?"

"Because Batman is fucking killer," I say defensively. "He's the best superhero ever. Unless you count Indiana Jones as a superhero."

"Indiana Jones is not a superhero." Mark say.

"He should be. He like, kills Nazis and shit. That's superhero stuff."

"He's an exaggerated caricature of what archeologists actually are. And he's afraid of snakes. What kind of superhero is afraid of snakes?" Mark asks.

"Snakes are scary," I retort. "You don't think Indiana Jone is awesome?"

"Of course I do, I just don't think he should qualify as a superhero. He doesn't have superhero powers."

I frown. "Well, if he's a caricature of an archeologist, then he has the exaggerated qualities that a regular archeologist would have. He's smart, he wears an awesome hat and he's willing to travel halfway around the world to find an ancient piece of junk. Plus he gets chased by boulders and lives to tell about it. Can you outrun boulders, Mark?" Before he can answer I cut in again. "No, because that's a superpower."

"But the reason people like Indiana Jones so much is because he's _not_ a superhero," Mark insists. "He gets hurt and fucks up and he's an imperfect character. That's what makes him awesome."

"Maybe Harrison Ford is a superhero," I muse, giving up.

Molly has been hitting up every house on this block and her bag is already getting heavy with candy. She returns from the next house and hands me the bag to hold for her.

"Getting tired already, Miss Molly? You got a big town to cover. You told me yesterday you weren't going to stop until you went to every house in town."

"Hey, look," Mark says. "It's one of those houses who put a giant bowl of candy outside and tell everyone to take one piece."

"No way, for real?" I ask, looking. And sure enough, just three houses away from us there it is.

"You're not going to steal all that candy, are you?" Violet asks us.

"Of course not," I assure her. "But Molly is."

"You're a bad influence," Mark tells me and I shrug, as Molly snatches the pillowcase away from me and runs toward the house.

I shrug. "Every good girl has to have a little bad in her. She's not going to take all of it, just her favourite stuff."

When we catch up with her, Molly has taken all the M&Ms out of the bowl. I grin at her and she hands me her pillowcase.

"That's my girl," I tell Mark. "I did the same thing, who cares?"

"I feel like my head is melting. Is this silver shit all over my face yet?" He asks in response.

"Nah, it looks great. You should take a picture of it. Violet did a great job."

A few blocks later, Molly really is getting tired. I take pity on her and hoist her up onto my shoulders and start accompanying her to the doors with Mark holding open the candy bag for us. People are generous in our neighborhood, and we do one more block before calling it quits and heading back to my house to sort through the candy.

As predicted, Molly jumps all over my mom the minute we get home, Audrey screams my name until I come over to her. I take her from my mom, holding her on my hip and bouncing her while Molly tells Mom about the candy she got. My mom dumps the pillowcase open on the table and brings over another plate of cookies to the table as well. She takes Audrey back from me and sits at the table.

"You better get going," she tells us with a tired smile. "If you ever want to leave."

Taking her advice, we slip out and pile into my car to drive into the city.

"What do you guys feel like? Pizza again or what?" I ask them. "There's a good place near the theatre."

Mark agrees and we head off, blasting some Velvet Underground music and driving too fast.

* * *

We sit in the back of the grungy pizza place, poring over the paper and arguing over what movie to see. I start into my first slice of pizza and push my plate in the middle so Mark and Vi can dump the toppings they don't eat onto it. Violet folds the paper and pushes it over to Mark.

"What do you think?"

"Roger wants to see a slasher," Mark says.

"Well, we've got three options and none of them are pretty," she sighs.

"Let's hear 'em," I say, reaching for my Cherry Coke.

"_Sleepaway Camp III – Teenage Wasteland_, _Silent Night, Deadly Night 3: Better Watch Out_, or _The Terror Within_."

"The Silent Night movies suck," I tell them. "Santa is not scary. Plus the sequels of horror movies are always terrible. Let's go for _The Terror Within_. What's it about?"

Violet sighs and scans the paper. "Something about humans fighting gargoyle monsters who impregnate women with their gargoyle babies after the apocalypse."

Mark frowns down at his pizza. "I was hungry."

"Come on, that sounds wicked, don't you think?" I insist. Eventually they give up their cynicism and we all get excited for an evening of demon gargoyle babies. Before we leave Mark adds the words "Low Budget Artwork" to the already wordy surface of our table and I write "Pointless Vandalism" underneath of it. We dump our trash and head off to the theatre, getting in the mood for horror by confessing our mutual adoration for Night of the Living Dead and continually saying "They're coming to get you Violet" while zombie walking.

* * *

At the end of the night we end up crashed on the couch bed in Violet's room, where both Mark and Vi are still verbally beating me up over making them see what according to them was 'the worst movie of the 80s'.

"You don't think it was awesome?" I ask for the millionth time.

"Roger, it was a blatant and horrible rip-off of _Alien_. It's what _Alien_ would have been if it was a low budget piece of shit shot with a homemade camera in a film student's basement with his cokehead friends as the actors," Mark retorts.

"You're giving it too much credit," Violet says.

"You want to go see one of the other slashers this weekend or something?" I offer, trying to make up for what was apparently a bad choice of movies.

Mark shakes his head adamantly. "I'd rather makeout with Hitler."

"I own Night of the Living Dead," Violet cuts in. "If anyone is up for good old-fashioned brain-eating."

Mark looks relieved. "I'd say put it in, but I don't want to fall asleep with all this shit in my hair."

"You can take a shower if you want," Violet says. "We won't start it without you."

I yawn. "But we will raid Violet's fridge again."

She rolls her eyes at me and grabs some towels for Mark. While he's showering we grab some more food and blankets while I tease her about Julian some more, and try on her blonde Nico wig. When he emerges from the bathroom I twirl the fake hair around my finger and tell him enticingly to come to bed. Violet giggles at him when he throws a pillow at me and tells me to lay off the charm for one night.

Violet pops the movie in and the three of us cuddle up together under the covers with cans of Coke and popcorn, saying the lines to each other teasingly and pretending we don't have to be up in five hours to get to school.


	10. Sexual Escapades and Sugary Cake

**Disclaimer:** I don't own RENT.

**Author's Note:** LOLercaust. Is anyone even reading this?

This story will contain a female OC. She will be a main character. She also will not be "involved" with either Mark or Roger. Ever. She's there to bring them together and be cute. Seriously, we promise. She won't boink the boys.

**I Found a Reason  
Chapter Ten -** _Sexual Escapades and Sugary Cake  
_**Mark's POV**

When my alarm goes off, I curse loudly into my pillow. There's no fucking way it's 6:33 already. I reach out blindly and try to turn it off, knocking it over in the process. I swear again and pull myself away from the warmth of my blankets to retrieve it and turn it off. I rub my eyes sleepily, staring blankly at my floor and willing myself to wake up.

"What's the story, morning glory?" Someone asks and I have to smile to myself while I reach for my glasses.

"When did you get home?" I ask Cindy who is smirking at me from my doorway. She's already fully dressed, looking very much like a hipster lost in academia. Besides her button down shirt and v-neck sweater, her dark brown hair has streaks of dark pink and she has a new little diamond stud on the side of her nose.

"Last night," she says. "But little Marky was already sleeping and Mom forbid me to wake you up."

She grins evilly, her eyebrow raised. "So I set your alarm for an hour early so I could wish my baby brother happy birthday before he heads off to another day of quality education."

I groan at her and flop back down on my bed. "You're honestly the most terrible person I know."

"Oh, lighten up," she says. "Besides, making sleeping beauty wake up an hour early is nothing compared to what Mom and Dad have planned for after school."

I cringe. "The family party is tomorrow, if that's what you mean," I remind her.

Cindy winces. "Don't remind me. Be glad you're the baby and you have a room to hide in. I'm visiting from college. They're not going to leave me alone."

"Has Mom seen your hair yet?" I ask her.

Cindy laughs. "She said you've been feeding her stories about how I skip class to binge drink all semester. Once I confirmed that those stories were completely fabricated by my baby brother's twisted little mind, she probably wouldn't have cared if I'd tattooed 'gutterslut' on my forehead."

She comes over to my bed and sets down a paper bag next to her feet before giving me a playful shove. "You're a sick kid, Marky. Do you have any idea how much more often Mom calls when she thinks you're slacking on your grades?"

"Well seeing as how you're the favourite child, I figure they'd call you plenty anyway," I tease her.

Cindy grins. "Remember when we used to pretend to fight over who was the favourite?"

I snort. "I definitely remember that it always ended up with us coercing our parents into buying us ice cream."

Cindy ruffles my hair. "We're a team, little brother."

I reach up and run a hand through my hair, trying to fix the damage before giving up and leaving it sticking up wildly. I gesture over to the paper bag at her feet.

"What's in the bag?" I ask her.

She smirks. "Well, one thing is awesome, one is mortifying. What do you want first?"

I frown. "You didn't buy me porn and condoms again, did you? That wasn't mortifying, it was just awkward."

Cindy laughs. "Oh, Marky. You know I just like to make you blush. It's so easy."

"Not anymore," I say. "You think you embarrass me? You need to meet Roger. The two of you will probably strike up a fabulously competitive friendship over who can make me feel more ill at ease."

"You know, Mark," she says solemnly. "If your friends make you feel uncomfortable in any way you should never be embarrassed to tell a parent or trusted adult friend."

I roll my eyes. "Like it's not weird to be sixteen and have a legion of trusted adult friends."

"Who's this Roger kid," she asks. "I don't think I know him."

"We were in little league together when we were little kids. We started hanging out this year. Us and this girl Violet," I explain.

Cindy raises an eyebrow. "Marky is all grown up and talking to girls now? Didn't they have cooties last time I was home?"

"You know, I was starting to get used to the house being so quiet without you here," I tell her. "It was actually really nice."

"Do you want your birthday present or not, Mark?" She asks, crossing her arms and looking teasingly indignant. I nod while yawning. While she digs into the bag I stretch my back out. Although I don't mind spending time with my sister I definitely could have used that extra hour of sleep.

Cindy digs a small package out of the bag and hands it to me. She leans back on my bed, grinning in her cheeky way. Much to my pleasant surprise, there's a Vonnegut book, a pack of Polaroid film and a new pair of circumaural headphones.

"This is like, a normal birthday present," I tease her. "You realize that, right?"

"Oh Marky," She laughs. "If it means that much to you I can definitely invest in something a little more useful to a teenage boy next time."

"Save your money, Cindy," I tell her. "Because all those dirty items are going to waste buried in my desk drawers. Unless you happened to buy me a girlfriend on your way here."

"Your mail order bride is coming next week," she jokes. "I put a rush on her, but she's coming all the way from Eastern Europe, cut the bitch some slack.

"Are those headphones geeky enough for you?" She asks, gesturing to them. "I know you're not satisfied unless your entire head is enveloped in sound."

"Thanks, Cindy," I say, putting them on to humour her. She laughs at me and messes up my hair again before giving me a quick hug.

"Come on, Mom should be up making breakfast by now," she says, standing up. "Go get dolled up for school."

I sigh loudly, but drag myself out of bed and haphazardly throw the covers back over the mattress in a lazy attempt to pretend I made the bed.

Cindy stops at the doorway and turns around. "Oh by the way, Marky. You're going to be needing this for the holiday pictures Mom and Dad plan on taking as a colour-coordinated family later."

She reaches into the bag again before tossing a bundle of scratchy fabric at me. I glare at the seasonal print in horror while she laughs her way out of the room.

* * *

During breakfast I had lowered myself to the point of whining, trying to get out of our yearly ritual of sending 'holiday' pictures of our family with 'holiday' cards. During the winter holidays my mother constantly tries to play on the novelty that we're a family of mixed religions, my father being raised Jewish and my mother a strict Catholic. Me and Cindy have had a little bit of both throughout our childhood, and were always allowed to make our own decisions about which traditions we wanted to follow. Cindy leaned a bit more towards Judaism, but she was always especially close with my father. I think they might have bonded over it a bit, though neither one was especially devout. I've always been sort of in the middle, borrowing from both, but really never picking a favourite. I haven't decided where I belong yet.

My mother thinks it's fun to send cards out that reference both religions. She also likes to take holiday pictures that incorporate both. Last year we posed with both a Christmas tree and a menorah. This year we're apparently wearing holiday sweaters. Cindy and Dad get to wear the significantly less dehumanizing sweater vests with little dreidels, menorahs and Stars of David. Tacky, but not traumatizing. Unfortunately my mother apparently decided that I'm Catholic this year, as I'm going to be wearing a horrible red nightmare covered with prancing reindeer, a giant green tree with puff ball ornaments and 'Merry Christmas!' scrawled out in yawn across the chest.

All of this on my birthday, no less. I desperately begin wishing to trade in my family, cursing under my breath as I head toward the school. I frown to myself, not seeing Roger or Violet anywhere. If Roger decided to cut gym without me, I'm trading him in too.

I don't notice the footsteps behind me, busy as I am grumbling to myself, until two people hook their arms through mine and scream 'Happy Birthday!' in my ears. I jump about twelve feet, and when I finally catch my breath Roger has practically dissolved in laughter and Violet is smiling and holding out a little cupcake with a candle stuck in the middle.

Roger grins and throws an arm around my shoulders while digging his lighter out of the pocket of his jeans. He reaches over and lights up the candle and I'm treated to a rousing rendition of 'Happy Birthday' right outside of the main entrance hall of our high school. I can feel my ears burning slightly, but I can't help but smile.

"You didn't have to do that," I tell them, peeling the foil wrapper off of the cupcake and hesitantly dipping a finger in the sprinkle-covered frosting to taste it. Roger looks incredibly pleased with himself.

"We brought shitloads of stuff for lunch too," he says. "We're throwing a fucking party."

"It's too fucking cold to sit outside," I protest. "Where do you plan on having this party?"

"You hear that, Vi?" He asks, giving me a disapproving look. "All that time we spent slaving away over birthday cakes and cookies and he thinks it's too _cold_ to have a party."

"You mean all the time _I_ spent slaving away?" She clarifies, giving me a wink. "While you sat on my kitchen counter barking instructions and playing guitar?"

"Per usual," I tease him while he shoves his hands in his pockets and looks pouty. "I was kind of hoping that's what happened. Because if I was expected to be consuming anything that Roger cooked, your party would be short one guest of honour."

"In his defense," Violet says, noticing that Roger looks put out. "He did buy most of the ingredients, told me what to make and hung around to help me pack everything up."

"Well, thanks," I tell them both. "I look forward to deliberately disobeying everything my mother ever told me and eating a pile of junk food for lunch."

Roger grins at me, hooking his arm around my head in a hug that could pass as a headlock. "That's the spirit, Marky."

* * *

Roger and I head off to Chemistry lab and are affronted to discover another project that feels like it's designed for someone a bit younger than us, seeing as how our teacher has decided to send us off on a Chemistry scavenger hunt. After a few minutes of explanation, our immediate disinterest has been forgotten. We discover that as long as we're back to check in before next period and we return before the bell rings to leave for third, we're getting permission to wander throughout the entire school and over the grounds.

Roger and I grab worksheets and stuff my Chemistry book and his notes in my bag before we head out. I pull out a pen and immediately begin scanning the worksheet, looking for easy things we can mark off without even really looking for them. Much to my dismay, I realize that this assignment is heavy on the Chemistry and not so stressed on the scavenger hunt part.

"Where do you suggest we go to find a malleable substance?" I ask Roger, frowning as I read further down the list.

He looks down at his own worksheet, brow furrowed in thought. He snaps at me and I hand him the pen I'm holding, assuming that's what he wants. He immediately begins writing stuff in, talking half to himself.

"Gas-liquid solution can be Coke. Easy. And then an element can be the aluminum can. Polymer can be something plastic like…" he trails off.

"The plastic containers they serve lunch food in?" I offer and he nods and writes it in.

"I don't know where the hell they want us to find a solid-liquid solution," he says, flipping through his notes.

"The clay in the art department!" I say loudly, hitting his arm.

He gives me an odd look. "What are you going to do? Drop a chunk of clay in a glass of water?"

"No, it's a malleable substance," I tell him impatiently.

He grins and adds it to the list. "Good thinking, Marky."

We figure out a couple more things without any sort of effort. Roger determines that an edible example of physical change could be something that melts. We write down melting ice cream, both of us pretty sure that the cafeteria sells ice cream. I read in Roger's notes that air can be considered a homogenous mixture.

"What's a substance with a density less than 1g?" I ask him, flipping through my textbook.

"The brain of anyone who participates in Scarsdale sporting events?" He offers. We scribble a few more things in and then camp out in one of the practice rooms in the music department. I dig my walkman out of my bag and turn it on, jacking up the volume so we can hear the music filtering through the headphones and into the tiny room. Roger leans against the piano, his arm resting on the one knee pulled up his chest, his other leg stretched out in front of him.

I dig through the textbook, trying to find more examples to add to our list while he plays with his lighter and eventually digs his cloves out of his pocket and lights one up.

"You're seriously going to get us busted someday, Rog," I scold him teasingly. He blows his smoke in my direction, ignoring my warning. He stretches, then stands up and sits at the piano bench, placing the cigarette between his lips and laying his fingers on the keys. He begins to play what sounds like a scale.

"You can play piano?" I ask him. He lifts one shoulder and then drops it again.

"Yeah," he admits, inhaling on his cigarette again, the fingers of his free hand moving to play a pattern of notes in the low register of the keyboard. "I'm pretty awesome at it."

I roll my eyes at his lack of humility. "When did you learn?"

He starts to play a jumpy bass line with his left hand, cigarette dangling from his lips. He shrugs. "I've picked it up a bit over time."

I dig my Polaroid out of my bag and wait until he's got both hands on the piano and he's playing a nice little melody before I take a picture of him. He narrows his eyes playfully at me over his shoulder while he plays, letting one hand leave the piano for a moment so he can exhale some smoke before continuing to play.

My watch is telling me we have to go check in soon. Meaning in about two minutes, and we're on the other side of the school. I watch Roger for a moment more, his eyes closed as he plays, occasionally halting between chords or fumbling over a key. He's not as practiced as with his guitar, but it still seems almost sensual.

"Guitar is my main squeeze, you know?" He explains later, his arm around my shoulders again, still smoking while we take the long way back and pray no one sees him holding a cigarette.

"Guitar is like, this extension of your body," Roger says. "You can feel the electricity of the music in your hands, in your, uh…" he smiles at me also shyly. "The way you hold the instrument, it's right over your cock. Your hips are right up against it, you're connected to it. Playing music is probably a lot like fucking."

He laughs and takes another drag. "But it's like, dirty love. Guitar is a dirty instrument. Piano, though…"

He smiles. "Piano for me is like the girl next door. She makes pretty music, but she's a little more complex. She might even be your best friend. She's not this like, sexual energy, you know?"

He grins. "Not that piano can't be a dirty slut too. She definitely knows her way around. But she's classy about it."

"So why do you spend so much time with your guitar?" I ask him, adjusting my bag on my shoulder. "It sounds like you really want to learn piano better."

Roger shakes his head. "I'm not sure how to explain it. It's freeing to play guitar. When you're up onstage and the music is pounding around you, through you, and it's vibrant and sexual and powerful, it's a fucking rush. There's nothing like that, I fucking love that feeling.

"You need something like piano to bring you down once in a while. It keeps you grounded, keeps you focused. Requires a lot more discipline. I would like to learn it better, but I'm too impatient," he grins down at me. "And I've got a few good years of dirty guitar fucking left, anyway. I'll buckle down on my girl piano when I'm old."

I roll my eyes and shove him off me. Roger stamps his cigarette out under his foot and we hurry off to check in at Chemistry before next period.

* * *

After another period of watching Roger fight over Geometry with his classmates, the three of us head out to Violet's car to grab my birthday lunch and then take our usual place under the big willow tree, though we're bundled up in coats and scarves. We huddle together under the tree, Vi and Roger on either side of me, a giant cake platter on my lap. The three of us don't bother cutting slices, we each grab a plastic fork from the bag Violet brought and dig in together. Violet eats around the frosting and Roger steals as much of it as he can.

There's also a little container full of cupcakes like the one Violet brought to me this morning, a plate of sugar cookies covered in sprinkles and a tiny tray of what looks like lemon squares covered in powdered sugar. Roger dips a cookie into the frosting of the cake.

"I sprinkled the cookies," he says proudly, and I share a look of amusement with Violet.

"I can tell," I reply, leaving him to wonder if it was sarcasm or a complement. He frowns as he grabs a cupcake, but eventually seems to forget about it either way.

A gust of wind hits us unexpectedly and we shiver together. Roger moves in closer to me, wrapping his arms around himself and scowling.

"It's fucking cold," he whines, eyeing my coat jealously, which no doubt is substantially warmer than his beatup leather jacket.

"We could sit in someone's car if you're cold," Violet suggests. She finishes a cookie, puts on a pair of gloves and shoves her hands in her pockets.

"It's not that cold," I protest, not about to let Roger forget he was the one to suggest sitting outside. "Roger's just being a girl."

He scowls playfully. "Fine, keep me warm and I'll shut up."

"You're not getting my coat," I warn him as he scoots practically on top of me, reaching out to steal another large bite of cake.

"Well then start supplying some body heat, you frigid bitch," he shoots back, making sure to toss a grin back in my direction as he reaches for another cupcake so I know he's joking.

"Oh and cancel your plans, Marky," Roger says. "We're taking you out tonight."

"I'll drive," Violet offers. "Since somehow Mark always gets stuck driving your drunk ass home, Roger."

"Where are we going?" I ask them, but neither will fess up. I explain I have a family function after school, purposely excluding the whole holiday sweater picture thing, but promise to call as soon as I'm finished.

When the bell rings to end lunch we share a mutual groan, and gather the remainder of our food up. After we drop it off back in Violet's car, Roger walks huddled up beside me, his arms wrapped around himself. Once inside the school he walks with us as far as he can before giving me a punch on the arm and waving as he heads off to history.

* * *

I practically run out of the English classroom with Violet. We'd been reading Catcher in the Rye for the past couple weeks in class, much to our mutual disinterest. For weeks we'd been listening to a room full of high school students express how connected they felt to Holden Caulfield, how much they had in common with him.

Violet and I share the impression that Holden Caulfield is a whiny brat.

Our teacher had started today with a lecture on the themes found in the novel, most importantly how Holden feels about "phonies". When a popular girl raised her hand and began a long, rambling monologue about how she hated fake people, we had both had enough and began passing notes making fun of various parts of the book until we were caught and prompted to share our thoughts with the class.

"Have you ever noticed how people obsessed with this book typically become mass-murderers?" I had asked the teacher, who glared at me in response.

"Anything that contains subliminal messages telling someone to gun down rock stars probably shouldn't be required reading for high school students," Violet added.

"Seeing as how we're emotionally underdeveloped and vulnerable," I had agreed.

In my opinion, we were justified. It's all a bit ridiculous. The book might not even be so bad if it wasn't regarded as a sublime piece of literature. It's substantially unextraordinary.

The rest of the school day passes too fast. I feel like my photo class ended as soon as it began and as much as I tried to stall on my way home, taking a few different short cuts that added an extra thirty minutes or so to my drive, I all too soon find myself standing in front of my bathroom mirror wearing a nightmare of a sweater.

Cindy pops in, her hair pulled back neatly into a bun that hides nearly all of the pink dye, wearing her sweater vest over a white button down shirt and not looking even vaguely ridiculous. She steps into the bathroom, throwing her arm around my shoulders and grinning at our reflections.

"That's what you get for being religiously ambiguous, little brother," she teases me. I let out a heavy sigh.

Cindy leads me out of the bathroom and outside to the car. My mother beams at us and my father gives us a sympathetic smile. He goes along with Mom because it's easier than arguing with her, but I'm sure he feels something akin to what me and Cindy are.

The pictures themselves are amazingly awkward, feeling very much like holiday mugshots. My mother constantly has to hit either Cindy or myself and even my dad once or twice when she catches us making inappropriate faces for the camera. The whole thing is a fiasco, but eventually the photographer and Mom are satisfied and we're free to leave. I tear off my sweater as soon as we're in the car, listening to Cindy reluctantly give my parents an update on how all of her classes are going. I don't know why they bother asking, or why they even believed me for a minute when I suggested she was doing less than fabulous. Cindy has effortlessly been a straight A student her entire life. But not in an obnoxious sort of way, how some people can be limitlessly booksmart but annoy the hell out of you. Cindy is genuinely clever. We had a great time together when we were kids, and even though I constantly get shit from her for being her little brother, we still get along really well.

As soon as we're home I toss my sweater on the floor of my room and kick it halfway under my dresser. My father comes upstairs a few minutes later as I'm about to call Roger to announce they're taking Cindy out for dinner. He invites me along, almost as an afterthought. I decline, thankfully able to explain that my friends are taking me out. My mother appears behind him and attempts to wheedle me into coming, but I remind them there's a whole party dedicated to me tomorrow, they should spend the night with Cindy since they never see her. Cindy glowers at me behind them and I smirk at her.

"Tell your friends to bring their families over tomorrow, Mark," my mother says. "I'd like to meet Roger's parents. What's the girl's name again?"

"Violet," I tell her, cringing to think of spending my birthday party with Violet's mom around.

My mother smiles. "Invite them all, we have plenty of food," she says and I reluctantly agree to ask them.

"You're a jerk, Marky," Cindy pouts as Mom and Dad head downstairs. "Leaving me with them all alone! We're supposed to be in this together."

I snort. "C'mon, Favourite Child. They see me everyday. They practically forgot to invite me. You think having me there would take some of the attention off you?"

Cindy looks almost sad for a moment. "I'm sorry, Mark. It's supposed to be your birthday."

I wave her off. "I don't care. I have all day tomorrow to be embarrassed and prodded by relatives. I get to hang out with my friends tonight, that's enough for me."

She gives me a hug on her way out, promising to bring me back a piece of cake or something from the restaurant. I smile to myself and shake my head as I pick up the phone. It's not that my parents don't love me, or that I'm terribly neglected or anything. Cindy was their first kid and despite having a wild streak a mile wide, she's done everything right so far. She's more outgoing and subsequently bonded better with our parents than I did, seeing as how I've always been more self-involved. She's also the first kid to leave the nest, so to speak, and they miss the hell out of her. I don't blame them for wanting to spend time with her. I just hope I manage to hang out with her tomorrow or Sunday before she leaves.

I call Roger, who informs me that Violet is corrupting the hell out of his baby sisters by letting them play with her makeup again. Apparently she'd already driven over to his house to wait for me to call. He tells me they'll start packing up and begin heading over now. I change my clothes while I'm waiting, pulling on my Blondie shirt and changing from the uncomfortable dress shoes my mom made me wear for the photos back into my beat up sneakers. I stare at myself in a mirror for a minute or two, making a face when I notice that my hair is nicely combed… fucking holiday pictures. I run a hand through it to mess it up just a bit, observing that it does nothing to make me look any more or less cool. Now it just looks like bedhead, which is adequate, I suppose.

I dump my school books out of my bag, giving my homework a reproachful look, knowing with absolute certainty it won't get done until 11pm on Sunday, and carefully stuff my Polaroid and a couple packs of film into it. I toss a longing look over at the camera I bought from the thrift store, trying to figure out when I'll have time to read up on it. My dad promised me a projector as a late birthday present once I figure out how to work the damn thing.

My bedroom door opens and I jump about a mile before I realize it's only Roger and Vi.

"You just let yourself in now?" I ask him, trying to slow my heart beat. Violet smiles guiltily from behind him.

Roger shrugs, flopping down onto my bed. "You should lock your doors. Anyone can get in, you know."

"Even common hoodlums like you," I sigh, picking up my bag. "Where are we going?"

Roger gives me a look of scathing disbelief. "You don't want your presents first?"

I stare blankly at him for a moment until I feel my face begin to go pink. "You, uh… didn't have to do that," I mumble, suddenly at a loss for words. Suddenly I long to be second-best to Cindy, sitting home reading about cameras on my birthday. I temporarily feel like a monumental burden.

"Don't be ridiculous, Mark, it's your birthday," Violet scoffs.

Roger gets off of my bed and comes over to me, hooking his arm around my neck and shoving a small package messily wrapped in old newspaper pages into my hands. "Stop being a wet blanket and open your damn present."

I can't help but smile when I find a package full of music, mostly mix tapes with names like "Get Me A Drink And A Dance Floor" and "Suburbia – The Best Place To Leave". Roger grins like a fool when I thank him and messes up my artfully messed up hair. He continues to lean on me when Violet presents her gift, a small painting based on a Polaroid of the three of us we'd convinced some waitress to take. I thank her as well, giving her a hug which Roger promptly joins in on, being the needy bastard he is. I shove aside a few things on my dresser and prop the painting up against the wall, admiring the effect.

I'm busying thanking Vi again for the painting when I notice Roger bend down to pick something up off of my floor. I'm used to him violating pretty much anything I own without giving it a second thought at this point, so I hardly notice until he starts laughing his ass off.

"Marky! Where'd you get this sweater?" he practically yells, looking so delighted I can hardly breathe from embarrassment. Reluctantly I explain the family events of the afternoon while Roger takes off his leather jacket and pulls the sweater on over his t-shirt.

"What?" he challenges Violet when she giggles at him. "You don't think I can rock this?"

"You'll be rocking it alone if you wear that," I say, inadvertently shrinking away from the sweater when he comes over to me again.

He looks incredibly pleased with himself. "Happy Holidays, motherfuckers."

"It's barely November, Rog," I remind him but he ignores me and as we head out to Violet's car it appears as though we'll be spending the evening with my horrible holiday sweater.

* * *

Violet and Roger drag me into a roller rink, and Roger announces that we're going to get some drinks before we go out on the rink. The bad pop music blares around us as Roger brings us three Cokes. To my surprise he discretely pulls his whiskey flask out of his coat pocket and tops off his drink and mine, giving Violet only a little bit since she's the one who drove.

"What is that, rum?" I ask him and he nods and gives me a wink.

"Drunken roller skating, Marky. No better way to party."

Eventually our drinks become less Coke and more rum until I'm barely aware of the fact that Roger is wearing a sweater made out of yarn and Christmas cheer. Violet leaves us at the table, pawing at each other and laughing while she scores us some rollerskates. I pull my Polaroid out and waste an entire 10 pack of film trying to take pictures of me and Roger together. No matter which of us is taking it, we keep cutting half of someone's face out of the picture. This eventually leads to Roger sitting on my lap, his bony ass digging into my thighs and pressing his face right beside mine. In a sober situation, this sort of thing might be uncomfortable. I can't really be certain at the moment as Roger and I share a cheer while the picture develops, displaying our faces smashed together in mutual drunken delight.

With great difficulty, we get our skates on and follow Violet, who seems to be greatly enjoying our escapades, onto the rink. Roger and I hang onto each other for dear life, desperately trying to avoid little kids and other drunken teenagers. The dorky atmosphere of a roller rink is incredibly amusing if you're there with good friends, and even more so if you're drunk. Roger causes a minor riot when he insists on skating with Violet during the 'girls only' song. When the couples songs come on, the three of us bond together into a wall of teenage laughter, falling occasionally and blaming the spills on the skating ability of the other two.

We play a few rounds of skee ball and Roger wins us some crappy toys before we call it quits, heading out into the cold with our arms around each others shoulders, Roger singing Clash songs loudly in my ear. Violet props our little toys up on her dashboard as Roger and I fall into the backseat and we drive back to her house, having mutually decided earlier in the evening to crash in her room. Roger closes his eyes and slumps against me, snoring lightly under his breath. I'm starting to sober up a bit as we pull up to Violet's house and I shake Roger awake. He yawns loudly and stumbles out behind me as we head inside.

Much to my chagrin, we are almost immediately accosted by Violet's mother who tries to help me out of my coat and winks cheekily as she offers us something to drink.

"If you're going to drink, I'd really rather you do it here. What do you say, Violet? Bring your adorable little friends into the kitchen and we'll get you kids something warm," she says, putting an arm around my shoulders and starting to lead me away from my friends. I throw a look of desperation over at them, which Roger finds hilarious. Eventually, Violet pries me out of her mother's clutches and we duck into her room and lock the door behind us.

Violet pulls out the couch bed for me and Roger before disappearing into her bathroom to change. We don't bother undressing besides kicking our shoes off before slipping under the covers together. Roger passes out almost instantly, his head against my shoulder, his hair gel seeping through the fabric of my shirt. When Violet emerges I mutter a goodnight as my head clunks against Roger's and I fall asleep.

* * *

When the three of us arrive back at my house midmorning the next day, we find my parents have already decorated and part of my family has arrived. Cindy has been backed into a corner by one set of grandparents and also my dad's older sister, Aunt Angelica. It seems like there are little kids everywhere, which seems to appeal to Roger. My Uncle Joel is teasing my dad about something, and my mother is being harassed by my grandmother about everything from the food to the drive to the weather. Mom gives me a tight-lipped smile when she sees me come in, far too preoccupied with making all the relatives happy to muster a real greeting. I turn back to my friends to point out some relatives to them, but find only Violet standing behind me.

"Where's Roger?" I ask her.

She shrugs. "I don't know, I didn't see him leave."

Rolling my eyes, I figure he'll turn up eventually, I give the family tour to Violet instead, telling her how Aunt Angelica is an eccentric old cat lady who was a total babe when she was younger but now mostly sits around brushing her hair and talking to her cats. My maternal grandmother is a bitter old lady who hasn't stopped complaining about basically anything and everything that happens to her since my grandfather died a few years ago. She calls my mom or my aunt constantly to chastise them for not visiting enough, even though all she does when we do is complain that we're interrupting her schedule.

We grab some drinks and head off in search of Roger, waving hello to my Dad as we pass him. After a few minutes of searching we finally find him in the basement, spinning the wheel for the kids who may or may not actually be playing Twister. The boys look more like they're engaged in hand-to-hand combat and their sister Julia is lying on the floor bouncing her dolls from circle to circle on the mat.

"Left foot, blue," Roger says and grins as the boys decide to use their left feet to kick each other instead. Julia sits one of her dolls on a red circle.

"Shh," she whispers to Roger. "She's gonna sleep now."

Roger sets down the spinner when he sees us and heads over.

"Whose kids are these?" he asks. "They're awesome. My mom's coming over later, I just called her and told her to bring Molly. She'll totally have fun."

"Mom will like that," I tell him. "C'mon, lets go hide from the relatives before they get bored of Cindy and descend upon me."

Roger reluctantly agrees, waving goodbye to the kids who look genuinely sad that he's leaving. Roger steals my cup of Coke away and downs the rest of it, grinning like a fool when I frown at him.

"Where's the food," he asks over his shoulder, leading me and Violet up the stairs.

I direct him to the kitchen where we grab plates of food, a six pack of soda and a large bag of chips before bounding up the stairs to my room. We set up our feast on the floor, crack open our Cokes and figure out how to pass the time until they decide to bring out dessert.

"We should have brought the Twister mat up here," Roger says, his mouth full of chips. "And the kids, come to think about it."

I make a face. "I'm sure they won't object to you rejoining the kiddy table if you miss them that much."

Violet laughs when Roger shrugs and looks like he's about to get up, before realizing he has an entire plate of food left.

"We could play like, poker or something," Violet says. "I think I have a pack of cards in my purse."

Roger and I exchange a look. The volume of things Violet manages to keep in her purse has never failed to shock the hell out of us.

"Anyone know how to play poker?" I ask them, after considering the suggestion. After a moment or two Roger shakes his head and Violet shrugs.

"It was a thought," she says.

"I think I have like, Uno under my bed somewhere," I offer. "I don't think it will be difficult to remember how to play."

We all murmur a general sort of agreement so I dive under my bed and push aside a few things trying to locate the box. It's buried in a far corner next to Battleship and an old plastic chess set, neither of which I ever recall using. We dump the cards out of the box and spread out the instructions which read sort of like Greek. Roger gets bored and starts making up rules.

"Just take a handful of cards and start throwing them in the middle," he suggests. "If they're like, similar or whatever, that's cool."

"Well, I think that's technically right," Violet says, taking another peek at the instructions. "It says you can play cards that match the colour or number of the one face up," she squints down at the page. "I think?"

"Isn't this game for like, toddlers?" I groan. "I don't remember this being so confusing when I was nine."

"Maybe we should ask the kids," Roger says, drawing another card and frowning at it.

We eventually slap together a format of gameplay, which is about half real rules, half shit we've made up. Roger turns out to be absolutely abysmal at this game, and soon has completed two games with nearly all of the cards in his hands. Me and Violet can't quite figure out how he's losing so badly, seeing as how we're already cheating.

"Fuck," he says, after a few rounds of the new game. "Can't red and yellow be the same colour?"

I exchange a look with Violet who shrugs. Roger gets so pouty when he's losing at anything it's usually worth it to just mollify him.

"Sure, go for it," I tell him and he throws down some cards in a desperate attempt to get rid of his hand. I don't mention that I think I see some green and blue cards in there as well. Violet goes along with it too and we continue playing, deciding to let Roger do whatever he wants, which is normally what happens when we hang out anyway.

About ten minutes later Violet is down to her last card again and Roger's brow is creased in frustrated, knowing full well he's lost this round too. Violet plays her last card on her next turn and Roger tosses his losing hand into the discard pile with a heavy sigh, scrunching up his face like a spoiled child and crossing his arms.

Violet reaches out to reshuffle the deck and Roger suddenly gets a dangerous gleam in his eye. I know that fucking look. I love it because it always leads to either fun or trouble, and usually both. But I'm staring at him giving this giant shit-eating grin at the cards while Violet shuffles and I'm wondering what the hell that look is leading to today. Right before Vi doles out a new hand for each of us, Roger reaches down and takes off one of his shoes.

I stare hard at him, willing him to silently communicate to me what the hell he's doing, but Roger just keeps smirking, taking his cards willingly and looking far more enthusiastic about this round. Violet sees my fixation on Roger and gives me a questioning look, but I can only shrug at her and start the game.

The game goes quick, feeling very much like Roger is intending to lose. When Violet is again down to her last card he's grinning his head off. We count out our cards and once Roger discovers he's lost again, he winks at me, reaches down and slips off his other shoe.

"What the fuck are you doing," Violet asks him, finally noticing his odd behavior.

I look from Roger to the cards and finally make the connection, rolling my eyes at him. "Isn't it obvious, Vi?" I ask her and when she still looks confused I sigh loudly.

"Strip Uno," I tell her and Roger laughs. I fix him with a stern look. "Stop trying to lose," I scold him.

"Well you could help me out, Marky," he grins. "You've got a bunch of layers to lose too."

I try not to blush, frowning down at my new hand of cards and silently thinking that I might be fucked this round if I don't pick up some better ones.

Unfortunately for me, now that Roger has gotten me in on his new version of Uno, his ambition to win has gotten stronger. I lose the next round and Roger nags me until I relent and pull off a sneaker. Violet looks mildly frightened at the prospect of witnessing our strip-off, but goes along with it, doing her best to win each round. Not that we'd really let her lose at this point.

Three rounds later and Roger is shirtless, having lost both his sweater and the band t-shirt underneath, and I'm sans footwear. I try not to fuck up this round, thinking ahead and putting far more brainpower into Uno than I'm sure is required. Nevertheless, I end up being forced to lose my shirt at the end of the round.

I glare at Roger when he appears to be purposely losing again halfway through the next game, seeing as how the only thing he has left to take off is his pants and well… yeah. Then I realize it's better him than me and I let him pretend he has nothing to play in his hand for the next few turns.

When Violet wins again Roger gives me the dirtiest grin ever and stands up, hands at the zipper of his pants. Holy shit, I can only hope he's wearing something under them. Violet stares straight at me, looking like she's about to break into a bout of laughter at any moment. Roger unzips his pants and starts to slide them down his narrow hips when my door opens and all three of us turn toward it in terror.

It takes Cindy a moment to fully absorb the scene, her little brother half-clothed sitting directly in front of another half-clothed boy who is about to get a whole lot less clothed. There's also the added fun of having Violet there for the whole awkward party. Cindy swallows, recovers and leans against the doorframe like nothing has happened.

"So this is Roger," she says, like there was any doubt. She smiles at Violet and gives her a wink before closing the door behind her and joining us in my room.

"Marky, how many times have I warned you to lock your door during your sexual escapades?" Cindy asks. I glare at her, willing myself not to turn red. I'm not about to let her have the satisfaction of embarrassing me in this already fantastic situation.

Roger, like he's not standing there shirtless with his tight jeans halfway down his hips, gives Cindy the same sinister smirk he's been giving me for the past hour or so.

"We like the added excitement that someone could walk in at any moment," he says. "Adds this whole danger element."

Cindy looks him up and down and raises her eyebrow at me. I shrug, silently telling her, _yeah, this is the kid I consider my best friend. Please don't judge_. She smiles and shakes her head at me.

"They're cutting your cake, Mark," she says. "Please come distract the relatives from me for a bit. I'm going to hide in the bathroom or something."

I agree, and Cindy leaves the room and I hear the bathroom door down the hallway shut and lock. I glare at Roger.

"You're so lucky it wasn't my mom or something," I snap at him.

"Yeah, like you're really angry," he scoffs, reaching over to mess up my hair. I push him off and run my hands through my hair, trying to fix it. I wish people would stop touching it. It looks ridiculous enough on its own, it doesn't need to be manhandled every time someone feels like teasing me.

We put our clothes back on and follow Violet downstairs. Roger's mom has arrived, she's talking with my mom and one of my aunts in the kitchen. They're all laughing about something, probably something stupid I did when I was a kid. Parents always have a way of telling your most embarrassing stories when your friends are around, so I try to lead Roger and Violet through the kitchen unnoticed.

Molly is playing with Julia and her dolls. The two girls are giggling together, getting along well. Roger seems especially pleased by this, dropping onto the floor next to them to join in on their fun.

"He's like a big kid," Violet says fondly and I nod.

"It would be fucking irritating if he wasn't so endearing," I find myself saying and I'm left feeling slightly miffed when Violet smiles knowingly at me before helping herself to some cake, promptly scraping the frosting off of the top. Roger appears behind her almost instantly, reaching around her shoulder to scoop up the frosting and devour it.

"Isn't anyone going to sing 'Happy Birthday'?" he asks me.

I shake my head. "You guys sang it to me about eight times yesterday. Seven of which were while we were drunk. I think I'm set."

Roger rolls his eyes. He reaches down and grabs Molly while she and Julia are running to get cake and hoists her up on his hip.

"Say Happy Birthday to Mark," he instructs her and Molly smiles shyly before complying. He grins at her and then kisses her temple lightly before setting her down. She runs off to join her friend and Roger helps himself to cake, taking a corner piece loaded with frosting. Despite our promise to Cindy, we take our cake back up to my room, and pop in a movie before the three of us curl up on my bed together.

Eventually the party dies down and most people leave. A few relatives, mostly the grandparents, are spending the night. It takes a good deal of wheedling on my part to convince my parents to let Violet stay the night, who eventually agree on the condition that she sleeps in Cindy's room. Cindy doesn't seem to mind this arrangement at all, as long as Violet promises to give her some dirt on her little brother for teasing fodder.

Roger and I hole up in my room, laying on my bed with our feet on the wall and our heads hanging over the edge, listening to the mix tapes he made me and talking about nothing. I can hear Cindy and Violet giggling through my wall and we press our ears up against it trying desperately to hear what they're saying about us, but we can't make out complete sentences. We fall asleep like that, heads pressed against the wall, faces less than a foot apart. Both of us are rubbing our necks in pain the next morning, not too sure why we cared so much if the girls were talking about us.

One of my grandmothers, the nice Jewish one, not the crazy Catholic one, is making breakfast in the kitchen when the four of us stumble downstairs, which we each receive a giant helping of, in addition to leftover cake from the night before. My mom frowns at our inclusion of sugary cake as a breakfast item, but says nothing. She seems to be a really good mood, coming down off the high of being surrounded by family, something I think she's very fond of.

Roger and Violet leave a few hours later after we complain about school and watch another movie. I spend a bit of time with Cindy before she leaves, sitting in her room and watching her pack up the stuff she brought home for the weekend.

"What'd you and Violet talk about?" I can't resist asking her but she shakes her head.

"Nothing you need to worry about, little brother," she says with a wink. "Make sure you bring them around this summer when I'm home, it's nice to meet your little friends."

I make a face at her and she laughs at me, tossing a few more articles of clothing into her bag.

"That Roger's a little charmer," she says, looking up at me with a strange expression. "He's a good-looking kid."

"You're not going to try to hook up with him are you?" I groan. "Please tell me that now that I finally have friends you're not going to become _that_ kind of sister."

She smiles. "Oh Marky, c'mon. He's a little young for me, don't you think? I'm just saying…" she trails off with a shrug.

I stare at her, not sure what to make of this exchange, but decide to shrug it off. She commences packing and all too soon I'm hugging her goodbye and making promises to call that I won't keep. I'm terrible at keeping in touch with people.

All in all, not a bad birthday. I don't even mind that I didn't really get anything done this weekend. I figure I'll start playing around with the camera next weekend. If I can get some film and get it running I'm sure Roger and Violet won't object to me trying it out on them. It's not like they're not used to me shoving cameras in their faces. I glare down at my schoolbag, willing my homework to do itself, to no avail.

The rest of the relatives leave later in the evening and finally faced with no one else to distract me, I head down to the kitchen to grab myself another slice of cake before barricading myself in my room with a stack of mix tapes to start the mountain of homework due tomorrow.


	11. TeenageInvincibilityandFemaleSuperheroes

**Disclaimer:** I don't own RENT.

**Author's Note:** Hey kids, not to stomp all your parade floats, but we would really appreciate a bit more feedback. I know this fandom is dying a bit, but the amount of people who read this fic versus the amount who review? It's a little lame. We'd really like to hear what you think, if you're reading. If you enjoy this story, let us know! We want to keep posting but uh... if no one's reading it we don't really see a point?

This story will contain a female OC. She will be a main character. She also will not be "involved" with either Mark or Roger. Ever. She's there to bring them together and be cute. Seriously, we promise. She won't boink the boys.

**I Found a Reason  
Chapter Eleven **_**– **__Teenage Invincibility and Female Superheroes_

**Roger's POV**

"No, see what would be wicked is like, an album of dead teen songs."

Julian stops looking blissfully unengaged with the gentle beat he's keeping on his drumset and stares at me.

"What the fuck?"

I roll my eyes. "You know, all the teen car crash songs from the 50s. Someone should commercialize on that shit. Speed that shit up, give it like a punk beat and wail on it."

"It would be the most depressing album ever," says Julian. "And don't you think it would get repetitive after about three songs?"

I shrug. "Yeah, maybe. I guess wah wah wah Johnny's dead and I'm crying at my prom could get old," I pick up my guitar and start trying to tune it. "But seriously, dead teen songs? If you feel like wallowing in a sea of misery and delusions of teenage invincibility, they're where it's at."

"I can only imagine you dressed up like Buddy Holly, wearing a suit and nerd glasses," Julian teases. "Moaning that you didn't make it to lover's lane before you car-wrecked your girlfriend."

He smiles, shaking his mop of black hair out of his eyes.

We've been throwing around random ideas since Alchemy's Revenge broke up. (Some of them in jest, like Julian's idea that we should dress like superheroes and have the climax of each live show be a rendition of "I Need A Hero".) We've already figured out a lot of shit we want to cover, and we've thought about the kind of sound we want to build together as a band. We've been taking calls for potential members for the past couple weeks, scheduling each of them a time slot to come to Julian's garage today and audition.

I set my guitar aside, satisfied with the sound and look around to see what else we need to set up. We figured on first letting them play us something to show us their skill or whatever. Then, since having shitty taste in music is a total deal-breaker, considering how our last band was run, we'd just chill and talk about music for a while, see what they're interested in and where they see themselves ending up musically and professionally. If we like them, maybe we'll jam together. It's immensely freeing to be able to have this much creative pull in a band. The little one time or short-lived gigs I did before Alchemy's Revenge were always on someone else's terms. I've never been able to call the shots, pick the music, write the songs.

We have about ten people scheduled to show up, a couple sounded indecisive or vague so we might have more or less than that. But we figure as long as someone shows up, we're good. I got to Julian's house early in the morning to set up and hang out for awhile and we've been half-jokingly tossing around ideas for theme albums for about an hour.

The first guy that comes in is pretty decent. He plays us a cool bass line that he wrote for his old band. He's a year or two older than us with lots of performing experience, but when we start talking about music he tells us he eventually wants to end up doing commercial work writing jingles and radio advertisements. Julian and I exchange looks of slight horror briefly before trying to steer the conversation back into a more logical place. When he finally admits that he's a big metal fan and has seen Queensrÿche eight times in concert we kick his ass out.

"I need to cleanse my soul," I say to Julian, only half kidding.

Although he mostly managed to hide his disgust while the kid was here, nice guy that Julian is, he now looks slightly traumatized and nods his head in agreement.

"Writing commercial jingles, what the shit? Fucking calls himself a musician?" I sneer, digging my cloves out of my pocket, lighting one up and then proceeding to flick my lighter open and closed for the next couple minutes to stay amused.

A few minutes later, my hand catches halfway through flicking my lighter closed as a guy who looks about forty-five wearing a beat-up leather jacket and carrying a battered old bass starts up Julian's driveway.

"You guys the band?" he asks, running one hand through his thinning hair that has been hairsprayed into a retro coif of some sort.

"Uh, no," Julian says, staring at him blankly.

"Yeah, you want the garage about one block that way," I say pointing. "We're a Buddy Holly tribute band that dresses like female superheroes during our concerts."

"And we have a full line-up," Julian adds.

The guy smiles widely. "Thanks kids, keep rocking it!"

"Fucking dammit," I moan once he's gone. "What the hell?"

Julian shrugs. "The first guy wasn't bad, maybe he could be given a complete re-education in music."

I shake my head. "Anyone with that kind of devotion to shitty music doesn't really deserve a second-chance."

Julian goes back to his drumset and idly beats out a rhythm, frowning to himself. I sigh, stubbing out my finished cigarette and lighting another one.

A few hours go by and we've seen about seven people so far. A few of them were pretty good. We had a bit of jam session with one guy who was a huge Clash fan, and another with a guy who had just left a Smiths cover band in the city. The only problem with him was that he still lived in the city and had a full time job. Not ideal for organizing rehearsal times, but a cool guy none the less.

We'd also seen a guy who looked like he'd played a bit too much stoner rock, and listened to lots of Mark Lanegan. I wasn't exactly an advocate of stoner rock, but the Screaming Trees had always been cool by me. Julian hadn't heard of the stoner's music but we were both interested until we heard him play and then begrudgingly had to let him go. No rhythm what so ever, not even when Julian tried to keep a beat for him.

Awkwardly enough, the next guy to walk in was Chris, the bassist from Alchemy's Revenge. We didn't know quite what to say to him, but let him go through a couple bass lines. I hid behind a cloud of smoke while Julian tried to let him down gently. Chris isn't a bad guy. I actually remember liking him a bit, despite the fact that he was always late to practice, was terrible at memorizing the music, had clumsy fingers and couldn't keep a beat to save his life. Eventually, looking incredibly disheartened, he leaves and we exchange guilty looks. We need a rhythm section that can mesh, and both of us have played with him and know it doesn't work.

It's early afternoon when a guy with crazy bedhead, a flannel shirt and tight jeans comes in, smoking like there's no tomorrow. He grins at us in this awkwardly friendly kind of way, then plays an atonal bass line that blows my mind just a bit. He takes a break halfway through to exhale from his cigarette, then continues as if nothing has happened.

"What time is it," he asks, when he's finished.

"Like, 2:30, I think," Julian tells him.

The guy nods. "Yeah, I need to buy some whiskey tonight," he pauses for a moment, smoking his cigarette and looking thoughtful. "You know that feeling where like, you're like in the music and whatever, and totally not really here and sort of," he makes a crazy hand motion that looks like he's juggling. "Like levitating or some shit?"

"Sure, man," I agree, kind of getting his drift but edging on the side of caution.

"Yeah, that shit just happened to me," he says, lifting his cigarette to his lips again and I can't help but smile.

We start talking a bit, and in between dialogue that sounds more than a little scatterbrained we discover that the guy's name is Ian, he's an avid Patti Smith fan and also listens to Johnny Cash, The Kinks and Nick Drake. He's played in a band before, but never had any stage gigs. When we found out he wrote the bass line he played for us we were pretty much sold but tried to play it cool so we didn't appear to be lunging at him like fangirls. We jam for a bit, and I'm grinning like a fucking idiot at Julian the whole time because it sounds fucking awesome with all three of us just messing around. We tell him we'll call him later to let him know if he's in and he shrugs and gives us the same awkward smirk, perpetual cigarette dangling from his lips and says, "Cool, whatever."

"He's kind of out there," Julian says, smiling a bit. "A little spazzy."

I laugh a little. "Yeah, but a spaz is fairly easy to get along with. Mark's a spaz, I haven't killed him yet. I haven't even mildly harmed him."

We're considering our options, pretty much set in our decision that it's between Ian and the Clash fan when we hear someone approaching the garage again. We both look up and are shocked to find a girl with a bass guitar about twice her size standing at the top of the driveway. She waves, her lips pressed into an apathetic sort of smile.

"I want to audition for your band," she says and we exchange a look and then shrug. She has to be about twelve and way too young to play the clubs but I'm not about to turn away a girl who looks like she could kick my ass in a few years.

She's actually pretty good, especially for a kid, and I'm almost sorry we have to turn her down. When she finishes she gives us an expectant look and I exchange glances with Julian, urging him to say something for me. I really don't want to have to tell this kid no. He shrugs at me helplessly and I look back to the girl who is staring at me like I've temporarily vacated sanity.

"Well?" she asks. "My mom wants me home like, now. She said to come right here and right back and only be gone half an hour."

"Why don't we walk you home?" Julian offers, getting up from behind his drumset and I nod in agreement. The girl half shrugs and we lead her outside, attempting to make small talk while I think of the best way to not make her cry. I have little sisters, I don't like to see little girls cry. This girl's not that little, but she's young enough to get all teary-eyed and shit and yeah, I don't want that.

She only lives like a block away and when we get to her house she stands in front of us with her arms crossed. I sigh heavily and fortunately Julian decides to just get on with it.

"You're really good," he tells her. "And uh, you should definitely keep trying. There's lots of bands in the area, some probably a little closer to your age, and well, yeah," he gives her an awkward pat on the arm. "Good luck, kid."

She rolls her eyes at us, adjusting the strap of the bass on her shoulder. "Sure, whatever," she says and disappears into her house.

Julian and I wait until about five to call Ian back, just in case anyone else showed up. He accepts our offer, sounding casually enthused and agrees to meet us early next week for our first rehearsal. We tell him to bring anything he's written and come up with some ideas for covers.

I hang out with Julian for another hour or so, congratulating each other on our good fortune. We're both excited at the prospect of our new band finally happening, but Julian, who has been in a particularly elevated mood for the past month or so, most likely due to his relationship with Violet, is positively giddy. I tease him for awhile, which he laughs at in his good-natured way.

I'd be content lying around drinking Cokes and listening to music for the rest of the evening, but I remember suddenly that I promised my mom I'd try to make it home for dinner. I finish off my drink and pack up my stuff, anxious to tell her that she might finally be allowed to come see my band play someday. My mom has been bugging me to let her come to one of my shows forever but I've never been proud enough of the music to expose her to it. I didn't want my mom to see me scowling in the back corner playing rhythm guitar while some frat boy plays lead on Zeppelin songs. Really just not the image I want my mom to have of me when I finally admit to her that I might want to skip college for a few years to play rock shows in the city. I feel like I at least have to prove something to her before I drop that bombshell on her.

Although she probably already knows. No one besides maybe Mark knows me better than my mom and I have a feeling she's always instinctually known that I'm more likely to be playing shows for college kids than actually be one myself. But I can at least pretend that her college pimping over the past couple years has had some impact and that I've considered my other options, however briefly. Which is why I haven't told her yet. I figure I'll wait until senior year when everyone is taking college decisions much more seriously.

When I get home I'm attacked by Molly who most likely ran from the dinner table to the door when she heard my car pull up. She jumps into my arms and I can't help but grin like a fool. I kiss her forehead and carry her back over to the table. Audrey starts yelling my name and giggling, smacking the tray on her high chair. Molly hops back into her chair and starts eating again, stopping halfway through chewing to stick her tongue out at me. I laugh at her, much to the displeasure of my father who I've only just realized is joining us for dinner for the first time in almost a month.

"Molly, don't play with your food," he tells her, giving me a somewhat disapproving look for encouraging her.

"Oh Edward, leave her alone," my mom sighs, and I catch the subtle smile she directed at me. My father frowns slightly.

"Sorry I'm late," I remember to say. "The auditions ran long and I didn't realize what time it was."

My dad stares at me from across the table before clearing his throat and I can tell we're about to have a sporadic 'I care about what's going on in your life' moment.

"What were you auditioning for?" he asks me in a relatively friendly voice.

I try not to look annoyed when I reply. "I wasn't auditioning. I was holding auditions for my band with one of my friends."

His brow furrows slightly. "I thought you were already in a band."

"Yeah, we broke up a few weeks ago," I sort of mumble. He knows this. I know I've mentioned it before. My mom is giving me the 'please be patient' stare. I manage a feeble half-smile for her and try to not be an asshole, especially not in front of my sisters.

"So you're starting another one?" he asks and his tone is so skeptical and patronizing I have to will myself not to get angry.

"Yeah, so?" I say, trying to hide the challenging tone in my voice. I'm not successful. My dad sighs and looks vaguely defeated. He rubs at his temples for a moment before looking up at me again.

"Roger, I'm trying, okay?" he says and I lose my confrontational stance and stare down at my plate feeling a little embarrassed. I know he wasn't trying to be a jerk. But I also can't stand that he manages to disappear from our lives for weeks at a time just to reemerge and pretend he's up to speed on what's going on. He doesn't need to be such a workaholic. It wouldn't hurt his income that much to spend a few hours a week with his kids or his wife. It's not even like my dad and I are that drastically different. From what my mom has told me, he used to be a cool guy. He was into good music, took her to rock concerts for dates. I learned how to play guitar using his old Les Paul before I bought my Fender, so it's not like we wouldn't have anything to talk about. But the point is that he was never there to talk to, which I don't understand. What's the fucking point of having people in your life if you never bother to spend any time with them?

Molly keeps silently looking from my father to me, her round little face confused and a bit sad, maybe. I smile at her and flick one of my peas in her direction. She giggles, looking relieved and instantly goes back to being herself. Audrey bangs her hands down on the high chair tray.

"I'm done now!" she announces.

My mom rolls her eyes fondly and goes to pull her out and wash her up. Molly follows her, tugging at her shirt and asking for cookies. Mom gives me a helpless look and I take one more drink of water before going over to Molly to attempt to redirect her to the cookie jar. She takes a couple cookies and I take a handful before leading her outside. It's a relatively nice evening, especially for it being November but I still take off my coat and wrap it around Molly's shoulders the minute we get outside. We head over toward the remainder of my mom's garden, the autumn weather having killed most of it for the season, and she sits in my lap, looking really fucking adorable wearing my jacket with cookie crumbs all over her face. I grin down at her and mess up her blonde hair. She bats my hand away giving me a pouty look. When she finishes her cookies she slides off my lap and wanders through the garden, touching the dying flowers and kicking the crunchy fallen leaves off of the path in front of her. I smile fondly, wishing for possibly the first time ever that I had a camera handy. Despite how much I hate autumn, there's something so profoundly beautiful about watching my little sister wandering around in the desolate garden. I wouldn't know how to explain it, Mark would. If I tell him about it later he could probably piece the logic of it together for me with his photographer's brain, his mind so intent upon preserving every memory and so good at explaining the reasoning behind each picture to me.

But I don't have that. I could probably stare at her for another few minutes and write a song about it. Something about how the world is dying around this little girl that has nearly a century of life ahead of her. I could probably be able to express what I feel while watching her through music and it would provoke the same memories that a photograph would. It might even bring out more, since every word would be an additional part of the memory, spelling out exactly how I remembered it in the notes being plucked delicately from my acoustic. Playing the song would be telling a whole lot of people a whole lot about me.

I smile when Molly turns toward me and waves, a handful of wilted flowers she's picked up in her hand. I hear footsteps in the grass behind me while I wave back and I figure it's my mom but when I look over my shoulder I see my dad hesitantly moving toward me. I take a deep breath and tell myself to be reasonable, because after all, there's no reason to be so hostile. Dad's a cool guy, he's just misguided. He's got the wrong idea about what life should be. But he means well. I have the speech mom gives after each mild disagreement I have with him memorized. I can recite it to myself in my sleep. He loves his kids. That's why he works so hard, so we can have everything.

Everything but him.

Dad drops down beside me on the grass, still wearing his suit from work. I can't help the bemused expression that I'm sure spreads over my face. If he's willing to pay for dry-cleaning to get grass stains out of one of his best suits, he must mean serious fathering business.

"Where's your coat?" he asks me and I gesture over to Molly. He smiles down at the grass for a moment before looking back over at me.

"Roger, I know it's hard on the family when I'm not home," he says. "I know it's a lot for your mother, taking care of Molly and Audrey by herself and I know that I've missed a lot of watching you grow up because of work."

I've heard this before. I wrap my arms around myself and casually look away. I hear him sigh and I know I'm not making this speech any easier for him, but I don't care. But today the speech takes a different turn.

"You're great with your sisters," he tells me and I can hear a fondness in his voice that doesn't often come through. I look over at him cautiously. He looks encouraged by this interest and goes on.

"Molly never runs to the door when I come home," he says almost sadly. "And I don't even think Audrey has learned to say 'Daddy' yet."

He smiles at me again. "But she definitely knows who you are."

"It helps that I'm around a lot," I retort before I can stop myself. Dad lets it slide without comment, probably because of how guilty I must look right now.

"This is not how I imagined my life to be," he continues. "I imagined being home for dinner each night, helping your mom with the house, having time to read the paper once in awhile.

"I couldn't wait until my son was old enough to throw the ball around in the backyard," he says with a shrug and then looks thoughtful for a second. "Not that I ever was any good at sports," he admits.

I smile despite myself.

He doesn't appear to be sure how to continue and clears his throat a couple times to break the silence. We always seem to reach a plateau of discomfort whenever we're alone together and neither one of us really knows how to break through it.

"Well," he says finally and I can tell our moment of bonding has come to an end. "I just wanted to tell you how much I appreciate what you do for your mother. Helping out and everything."

I nod in response and go back to watching Molly. Eventually I hear him get up and walk back toward the house and I sigh heavily. I want badly to be able to just give up and at least try not to be a jerk whenever he tries to be a father but I just can't. Not after sixteen years of quiet resentment.

I finally get tired of mulling over my guilt and decide to call Mark. I steal Molly away from the garden and take my coat back before unleashing her on Mom. I lean against the counter beside my mom while she finishes washing the dishes from dinner. She looks over at me and smiles, drying one hand on her pants before laying it on the side of my face. I sigh and slump against her shoulder for a moment, then give her a kiss on the cheek before grabbing the phone.

"I'm calling Mark," I tell her. "I'll probably be home late."

"Call me if you stay somewhere else tonight," she replies and I nod, dialing Mark's number while Molly jumps around the kitchen with a 'guitar' she and I made out of a tissue box, cardboard tube and rubber bands. I smile while I watch her pluck the strings and scream. I tell Mark I'm coming to pick him up and then stick the phone back in the receiver and pull my coat on.

Mark is waiting outside of his house for me, lying on the ground and photographing up into the branches of the leafless tree in front of his house. He finally snaps a picture and it slides out of the camera while he stands up. He smiles at me when he notices I've arrived and picks up a couple other pictures he had apparently left on the ground to develop.

"Where are we going?" he asks as he's climbing into the car beside me. I shrug in response.

"Want to just drive around for awhile, see what we find?" I venture and he nods and settles back into the seat, examining the new pictures. We drive for a bit without saying anything, The Smiths playing on my stereo before Mark finally chances a cautious glance my way, as if testing my mood.

"Did you find anyone for the band?" he asks me when he decides it's safe. I grin and immediately begin recounting the day for him, articulating our excitement over finding Ian and also telling him about the other people who auditioned. Mark looks relieved that he's dug me out of a downer mood by asking the right question and goes along with the conversation. He laughs when I tell him about the girl who auditioned and how I actually felt like a jerk turning her down.

"Don't worry about it. In a few years when you're famous she'll be able to tell all her friends she auditioned for the band," he jokes.

"It's gonna be awesome," I tell him. "This is what I've been waiting for, you know? It's finally gonna fucking happen." Getting bored driving around in the suburbs I start to head for the city, for lack of anything better to do.

Mark smiles. "So I can actually come to your shows without earplugs now?" he teases.

"You won't even have to pretend you're just going to get trashed," I tell him.

"Bold statement," he challenges lightheartedly.

I grin at him. "Well, you and Violet will come to some of our rehearsals, right? I expect to satisfy your completely unbiased opinion before we start trying to impress the local underage alcoholics."

"Will you still be my friend if I hate your new sound?" he asks, looking over at me and smirking.

I shrug. "Probably not. If you expect to keep this 'best friend' business up you better start charming my pants off."

Mark snorts. "Considering how willing you are to depants yourself, that shouldn't be too hard."

"Do you mean that metaphorically in a 'Roger, you're an egotistical douchebag' kind of way? Or in a literal 'Roger, taking your pants off in front of my immediate family is not a good way to make a first impression?' kind of way?" I ask him, recalling my first encounter with his sister, although I don't actually think she was too put off. She seemed to find it pretty funny. A successful, albeit accidental first impression.

He laughs at me. "A good blend of both."

"Hey, I think I'm going to take Molly down to the park tomorrow," I tell him. "It's supposed to be the last 'not cold' day for a while."

"It's supposed to snow next week," he says nodding.

"Yeah, fuck that. You wanna come with? When Molly encounters playground equipment, she sort of forgets I exist. I can only go down the slide so many times before I get bored, you know?"

"Sure," Mark says. "You want to invite Violet too? I can call her later."

I laugh. "I would, but I hear she spends her weekends with some scruffy looking guy who plays drums."

Mark smiles. "Meanwhile, I'm stuck with you."

"Hey, I'm a good catch," I protest, while Mark rolls his eyes at me. "Remember that."

"Will I be tested on it later?" he asks.

"No, but you'll definitely need to consider finding someone else to follow around and take dirty pictures of."

He raises an eyebrow. "Are you threatening me?"

"Depends," I say. "Do you feel threatened? Because if you do, then yeah. If not well, uh," I sneer at him playfully. "I can be threatening."

Mark laughs. "Roger, last week you told me you've seen _The Princess Bride_ thirty-six times. Do you honestly think anything you say will be perceived as threatening after that?"

"When you have little kids in your family, you see a lot of kid movies," I tell him. "Wanna make something of it?"

"Stop acting like you're a badass," he teases. "You're just digging yourself in deeper."

I reach over and shove him gently.

"Hey," he protests. "You can't start a shove war in a car. I sort of want to survive this excursion."

"Just wait until I stop, then," I warn him. "I'll shove you into tomorrow."

Mark snorts. "Why don't you just go bake some cookies or something?"

I frown. "I don't know how to bake. My mom makes them for me," I say. Mark continues to laugh and eventually I allow myself to smile.

"I can still kick your ass," I insist, a minute or so later.

"Doubt it," he says, grinning.

"I could at least beat you at arm wrestling," I counter and he looks thoughtful for a moment before shaking his head.

"You're fucking scrawny," he says. "I could take you."

"So are you!" I shoot back. I can tell he's enjoying making fun of me. Fortunately for him I'm the kind of guy that doesn't see a conflict of interest between baking cookies and masculinity. It's fucking pathetic when guys think they're too macho for some shit.

Eventually we relent on each other and Mark tells me that his dad found him some film for his thrift store camera and also bought him a projector that he doesn't know how to use yet.

"Have you shot anything yet?" I ask him and he shakes his head.

"I don't know what to shoot," he says. "It's a weird transition from photography. One image is a lot different than filming something. I need to write a script or something first, I guess."

He looks over at me almost shyly. "Will you be in my movies?"

"Only if I can be a pirate or something," I say, grinning, hoping that Mark will find it productive to write scripts that involve a lot of fighting and maiden-rescuing.

"Well, we have to consider the sets we can work with," Mark says. "Unless you've got a boat handy, we're going to be doing a lot of filming on solid ground."

"Dread-Pirate Roger?" I ask him hopefully.

Mark shakes his head, smiling.

"I'd have to get one of those big gold pirate earring," I say, tugging at the piercing in my left ear.

"The one you have isn't adequate?" Mark asks. "Especially considering I just told you how unlikely pirate movies will be?"

I shrug. "I've been thinking about piercing the other ear. Or getting an industrial or something," I check the clock and realize it's still fairly early. "Want to get something pierced? We can go now."

Mark's head turns toward me faster than lightening. "What?"

"What else are we going to do?"

"Um, maybe like, something that won't set off metal detectors in the future?"

I laugh. "If you really want to have fun with metal detectors, you should get a Prince Albert or something. Because it's got to be hilarious when they run that wand thing over you and it goes crazy when it's over your cock."

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure dick piercings are outlawed by at least one of my religions," Mark says uneasily. "At least I'm hoping."

"Mark, by the end of this evening you will have either a piercing, a tattoo, or…"

"A migraine?" he interjects while I laugh at him.

I ignore his protests and eventually we end up at this place I know in the city where I got my ear pierced and where I plan on getting all my tattoos. My mom made me promise to wait until I was at least eighteen before I started with body art, even though I know a couple places that don't bother carding high school kids. Since she's been cool about the piercings, bleached hair and tight pants, I guess I can hold out on the tattoos for her.

I shove Mark into the place ahead of me and he looks over his shoulder and glares at me. I grin down at him and throw an arm around his shoulders.

"Look you can get naked lady tattoos," I tell him, pointing to a display. "Momma Cohen would just _die_, don't you think?"

"Do you think I could convince them to pierce your mouth shut?" he asks me.

"Lip piercings are cool, you should do that," I say and he frowns in response.

One of the guys waves me over and I take a seat next to him. He's watching Mark with an amused expression, and he raises an eyebrow at me.

"First-timer?" he asks and I grin and nod. The guy laughs.

"Looks reluctant," he says.

I shrug. "Yeah, I should have gotten him drunk first or something."

"Alcohol makes you bleed more," the guy says. "Kid looks squeamish."

"Nah, he's hardcore," I tell him with a straight face, nodding when the guy looks doubtful. Mark is examining a display of tattoos heavy on devils and pentagrams and looking slightly mortified. The guy chuckles to himself and turns back to me.

"What'll it be tonight?" he asks. I think on it for a minute and decide to wing it and do an industrial on my left ear. It'll take forever to heal, but they look fucking killer. Mark wanders back over to me while the guy is getting the needle ready.

"Where the fuck is he sticking that?" Mark asks, pulling another chair over.

"Hardcore, huh?" the guy laughs, swabbing my ear with disinfectant or whatever. Mark is staring at me adamantly, occasionally looking over to the needle. Eventually the guy asks me if I'm ready and I shrug and tell him to go for it. I make a face at Mark when I feel the needle go through my ear the first time, but it hardly hurts, so I grin at him while the guy starts sticking a barbell through the holes, but he looks unconvinced.

When it's done I turn my head to check it out in the mirror, pretty pleased with how it looks. I look over at Mark expectantly. He frowns, but looks significantly more pliable.

"Mark's going for the double nipple piercing," I tell the guy who laughs heartily when Mark's cheeks go the slightest bit pink and he crosses his arms in defiance.

"Well, you need to hide it from your mom, don't you?" I point out.

The piercing guy laughs again. "You're got lots of hair, do an eyebrow. By the time she notices it'll probably be healed."

Mark hesitates, but then shrugs and takes off his glasses in defeat. I switch seats with him and watch him squirm in anticipation.

"Need me to hold your hand?" I ask him jokingly, but more than willing to do it if he actually says yes, considering how he has yet again been lead to a compromising position by my irresponsible use of my persuasive powers.

He shoots me a look that clearly tells me to fuck off and I grin and lean back in my chair, watching him intently. He doesn't even flinch, staring at me with squinted eyes the whole time while I make faces at him, knowing he can probably hardly make out my features without his glasses. When it's over he puts his glasses back on and lifts up his hair to stare at himself in the mirror. He shrugs indifferently, but he's smiling and I can tell he at least sort of likes how it looks.

We pay up and leave and I promise the guy we'll come back for our first tattoos together which Mark balks at initially, then laughs off while we head back to my car.

"Stop touching it," I have to tell him, not even five minutes after we've left. "You gotta leave it alone or it'll get fucked up or something."

"If I die from an infection I won't have to worry about my mother killing me," he says thoughtfully. "So there's that."

* * *

Mark gets to my house around ten on Sunday morning. My mom is out shopping, I think, with Audrey. Since no one else is home Molly has already had ice cream for breakfast and is currently standing on the coffee table in the living room with her tissue box guitar, giving a concert for her dolls that she lined up in a row on the couch. I've been doing a bit of theory homework in the same room, making sure she's not going to fall or anything, but smiling to myself constantly. Just a couple more years and maybe I can bust out Dad's old guitar for her and start teaching her some stuff for real. It would be really fucking awesome if she turns out to be a total music nerd like me.

Mark drops down onto the couch next to me, watching me transpose a melody line I wrote. I point over at Molly.

"She's doing her encore, I think," I tell him. "So we can leave soon."

Mark smiles and I finish up the measure I'm working on and set my homework aside, getting up to grab Molly's coat and mine. When she finishes her concert I get her coat and shoes on and we head out the door and start walking to the park a couple blocks away. Mark has his camera with him and once we get to the park he immediately starts taking pictures of shit. I roll my eyes and head over to the swings. I brought him here to amuse me, and he's doing a crap job of it. Eventually, he heads back over in my direction to take the swing next to me, but not before taking of picture of me staring moodily at him.

"You know, a day is going to come when I'm going to start charging you for use of my image," I tease him. Mark smirks, shifting through his new Polaroids and handing me a cute one of Molly. I smile in thanks, looking up to see where Molly is before putting it into my pocket. She's busy with another girl about her age taking turns climbing through a giant tunnel thing. We watch them for a minute before Mark turns back to me.

"I think we should have a rematch on the monkey bars," he says. "Since I can't accept that you got farther than me last time."

"Maybe for once we should try to beat each other at something you have a chance at winning," I joke.

Mark frowns, heading over to the monkey bars and dropping his bag next to them. I lean forward, grinning to myself as he starts across and inevitably drops down to the ground halfway across.

I laugh at him, coming over to drape myself around one of the poles and grin at him mockingly.

"I don't really think I need to go now, do I?" I ask him teasingly. He shoves me playfully in response and I shove him back. When he reaches for me again, I start climbing the ladder of the monkey bars and hoist myself up on top of the rungs. Mark stares at me in disbelief. I smirk and cross my arms, my feet dangling over the edge of the bars. Feeling risky and in the mood to show off, I opt to do something I haven't done in a few years. I turn around and scoot over until my legs are inbetween a couple rungs, then holding on tight with my legs, I lean back until I'm hanging by my knees from the side of the monkey bars.

"You are going to die," he says incredulously. "How are you not fucking dead right now?"

I lock my hands behind my head and grin at him. It's been a couple years since I've tried this, I forgot how fun it is.

"There's no way you can do this, Marky," I taunt him. He scowls at me, his arms crossed over his chest. Then, looking fiercely determined, he walks over to the other side of the monkey bars and starts climbing up. I watch him as he pulls himself up on top with some difficulty, staring down at the ground somewhat apprehensively and then attempts to thread his legs through the bars the same way I did. He manages to get one leg in okay, but then in the process of moving toward the edge, his hand slips and to my horror he falls backwards off the top of the bars and lands in a strange position on his side.

I start freaking out, immediately pulling myself back up to a sitting position and then dropping through the bars back onto my feet. The blood rushing from my head makes me dizzy as I run over to him panicking the whole way.

"Holy shit, are you okay?" I ask him frantically while he moans softly, slowly trying to sit up. He puts pressure on his right arm and then flinches, pulling it toward his body immediately.

I drop down next to him, reaching for his arm, which he pulls away instinctively. "What did you do, does it hurt? Fuck."

I run my hands through my hair, unsure of what I'm supposed to do. Molly has noticed our situation and starts hurrying over.

"Fuck," Mark says. "I can't bend my arm."

Not exactly what I was hoping to hear. My mind starts racing in terms of how to proceed. My mom isn't home, I'm panicking too much to drive. Mark is obviously a bit incapacitated and can't drive himself.

"Fuck, fuck, I'm really sorry, Mark. Shit, what the hell," I moan, rubbing my hands together and staring at Mark who is frowning down at his arm but doesn't look very phased by what has happened.

I hear someone say, "Roger, calm down," and I almost laugh when I realize it's Molly, who has appeared at my side. She sits on the ground next to Mark and looks up at me expectantly.

"Okay, um," I start, thinking quickly. "We can make it back to my house, then we need to find a ride to the hospital."

Mark reaches his other arm out and I bend over and help him up, trying really hard not to touch his injured arm. We gimp back to my house, Molly bombarding Mark with questions as we walk.

"Do you think it's broken?" she asks. "If you get a cast, can I sign it?"

Mark smiles for the first time and assures her that she can. I'm still inwardly freaking the fuck out, deciding to try to call Violet when we get home. She lives relatively close to me, she could get here soon if she's home. There's no way I can drive, I need to be accessible should Mark feel the need to start punching me. Which I would gather is a pretty appropriate response at this point.

Mark sinks onto my couch when we reach my house and I immediately go to the phone. Violet answers, sounding surprised.

"Mark broke himself," I tell her, running a hand through my spiked hair and staring over at him worriedly. "He fell off the monkey bars and uh, we need a ride to the hospital."

Violet assures me she'll head over right now, but not before telling me to try to calm the fuck down. True to her word, she arrives in roughly ten minutes or so and once Molly is strapped into the front passenger seat of Vi's car I help Mark into the backseat and we head off toward the hospital.

"I'm really, really sorry, Mark," I keep saying, getting increasingly frustrated when he doesn't acknowledge me.

"Does it hurt a lot? Do you think it's broken? It looks broken." I babble. "How are you not crying? Your fucking arm is broken. You're dead inside, holy shit."

"Not helping," Mark says, smiling slightly.

"It's cool if you cry, I won't tell anyone," I say. "You fucking broke your arm. How are you not freaking out? You have no soul, what the hell."

"Roger, calm down," Violet, Mark and Molly all say practically in unison. I force myself to stop talking and have to make due with shooting Mark worried looks every couple of seconds.

When we get to the ER I run up to the nurse at the check-in.

"He broke his arm," I say, pointing at Mark.

She stares down at me skeptically. "Is there a parent or guardian present?"

"Can't you like, fix it and worry about that later? It like, hurts and shit," I insist.

The nurse points to a payphone in the lobby. "Have him call his parents. You're going to be waiting a while anyway, broken bones aren't really a first priority."

"What the fuck?" I yell. "How is a broken bone not a priority?"

"Is it a life threatening injury?" she asks me snidely.

"Could be," I shoot back. "You're the doctor, you tell me."

"C'mon Roger," Violet says, leading me away from the desk while the nurse glares at me. "Mark is using the phone to call his parents right now. Mark's dad is a doctor, maybe he can convince them to take him sooner. Okay? Calm down."

She pushes me into a chair next to Molly who looks sad.

"Is Mark gonna be okay?" she whispers to me. I smile down at her and reach over to ruffle her hair.

"Definitely, don't worry about it," I assure her. "Look there's like a kid corner over there. Why don't you go play for awhile?" I tell her, pointing over where there's a TV showing cartoons and a bunch of toys. She looks reassured and waves goodbye to me before heading over.

"What happened?" Violet asks me while Mark is on the phone across the room.

I sigh. "We were at the park being stupid. I was showing off and Mark tried to do the same thing and he fell. And I'm a total jerk, I should have told him not to do it."

Violet rolls her eyes. "Yeah, like that would have worked. Your rivalry knows no limits. If you two weren't trying to one up each other, I would be worried."

"Sorry if you were like, doing shit today," I offer. She smiles and waves me away.

"Just homework, and I can do that later," she says.

I shoot her a playful look. "What, not slumming it with your boy this weekend?" I ask her. "Isn't that why we don't see you anymore?"

She hits my arm, smiling coyly. "I saw him yesterday. We both have homework to get done today and we've found we uh, can't do homework very well when we're together."

I laugh. "Study buddies with benefits?" I tease her and she shrugs, still smiling.

Mark heads back over, holding his arm carefully. He sits next to me and I look over at him, waiting for him to tell us what's happening.

He sighs. "My mom is panicking," he says, then smirks. "You and her can start a chapter of Overreacters Anonymous or something," he teases me. I frown at him and slump in my chair, crossing my arms.

"They're on their way now, and yeah, my dad will probably use his Medical Practitioner powers for evil and convince them to bump me up on the list, so stop freaking out, Rog," he says, but he's smiling at the same time.

"Do you ever cry? Like, seriously?" I ask him. "How many times have I seen you seriously injured? I fucking knocked you out with a ball in Little League and you were cool then, too. Do you need to like, punch me or something? Cause you can, because I feel like a jerk, how are you not…"

"Roger, my mom is going to be here in like, ten minutes. And she'll be freaking out enough for twenty people. It would be _really_ awesome if you could just chill out and amuse me for a while instead of yelling about how sorry you are every five minutes. It's cool, don't worry about it. I climbed up there myself."

He gives me a very pointed look that clearly says to back the fuck off and I finally am forced to relent. His parents arrive shortly afterwards and true to Mark's word, his mother is practically hyperventilating. Mark's dad heads over to the check in desk and talks to the nurse briefly. She smiles amiably and about three minutes later someone comes out to take Mark and his parents in back.

"You guys can leave," he says, waving us away. "I'll call you later."

I look over at Violet apprehensively and she nods. "He'll be here for a while. It's busy and they need to take x-rays and everything. I broke my arm when I was a kid. It'll be a couple hours."

"I should really wait," I say, feeling guilty. Violet shakes her head with a knowing smile and grabs my arm, pulling me up.

"Wanna go get something to eat?" she asks. "Then if I can stop at my house to get my homework I'll wait around at your house with you, okay? So you're not panicking and scaring your sisters?"

I scowl at her but she eventually persuades me to collect Molly from the kid corner and agree to her plan. We stop to buy ourselves a pizza and spend the afternoon holed up in my room listening to Velvet Underground and doing our homework. Sort of. Violet does her homework, pausing once in awhile to stare at me. She always looks as though she's about to say something, then seems to think better of it before smiling distantly and going back to her homework. I mostly just tap my pencil against the half-finished score written out in front of me and staring at the phone.

Mark finally calls around 4 or 5 to tell us his arm is in fact broken and that he'll miss the first couple periods of school tomorrow while he's at an orthopedic doctor getting a real cast. He informs me that I better get a whole lot better at note taking since his dominant arm is incapacitated for the next six weeks, then laughs at me and tells me to have fun in gym by myself tomorrow morning.

* * *

The next day at lunch we're forced to sit inside for the first time all year, glaring miserably at the falling snow outside. I had signed Mark's cast in Chemistry, writing "For a good time call…" followed by my phone number. Violet is currently drawing him a little picture on it, laughing to herself while Mark dictates to me some alterations for his Geometry notes. Mark reaches into his lunchbag with his free hand, looking fairly confused for a moment before pulling out a little folded paper. He hands it to me to open, but as soon as he sees what it says he snatches it away and stuffs it back into the bag, his ears turning pink.

"Aww, Marky," I grin, teasing him, since the note had contained a message from his mom, telling him that if he wasn't up for school today he should just call her and she'd come pick him up.

"Laugh it up, Rog," he says. "But you're really in no position to be mocking me. Considering how much manual labor you owe me for the next month and half."

"Then shouldn't you be nicer to me?" I ask him. "Since otherwise you'd find yourself shit out of luck?"

He rolls his eyes. "Well considering you believe this entire thing is your fault, I'd say you'll do everything I ask you to," he says. "The guilt will drive you crazy if you don't."

Violet laughs at my defeated expression as the bell rings for the end of the period and I am forced to relent. Mark hands me his bag and I head off with him to his next class.

* * *

After school I drive Mark home since his parents dropped him off this morning. He asks me if I want to hang out for a while.

"It has to be my house, though," he says. "My mom isn't willing to let me out of her sight for at least another seventy-two hours."

His mother accosts him the minute he gets home, asking him about every detail of his day and immediately offering to make us some food. When we're finally allowed upstairs to Mark's room, I'm balancing a large tray of sandwiches, cookies and chips and holding two cans of Coke.

"So does it suck to not be able to use your arm?" I ask him, to which he shoots me an incredulous look and I have to laugh. "Yeah, stupid question, I guess."

He smiles. "I should be able to drive again soon. As soon as I get used to having this and my mom will let me. It's not exactly like, safe, but it's possible."

"I can just drive you to school or whatever, if you want," I offer.

He thinks it over and shrugs. "Maybe. At least for the next couple days. My mom is impossible to deal with right now. I was ready just to break my other arm and go back to the hospital just to get away from her."

I laugh. "Yeah, like she wouldn't follow you, panicking, every step of the way."

"You're one to talk," he teases me, and an oddly awkward silence ensues. I start in on the sandwiches for lack of anything else to do.

"Sleeping with this thing was really uncomfortable," he admits. "I was ready to cut it off after like, an hour."

"The arm or the cast?" I ask him, drinking some Coke.

"Both, I was so annoyed," he says. "And I have to like, wrap bags around it when I take a shower. It's fucking lame."

I grin. "I bet you have to wake up a whole five minutes earlier for that." He nods, scowling.

"That must really suck that it's your dominant arm," I say. "I guess it must be hard to uh, you know."

He stares at me blankly for a moment, then smiles cheekily.

"Well, since you're responsible for this and you're helping me do everything else for six weeks…"

I return his mocking smile. "Great, I'll bring the hand lotion, you order a pizza and break into your parents liquor cabinet. We'll get drunk, watch porn and have a pants-off dance-off."

Mark's smile falters for half a second. "Yeah, right now I don't know if I should be excited or freaked out."

I grin at him. "How freaky you wanna make this? I've got lots of shit…"

"Yeah, I'm gonna go with freaked out," he interrupts, tossing a chip at me. We laugh at each other and after finishing some more of the food and trading a few more innuendoes back and forth, we start in on our homework, which actually ends up being mostly me doing our homework for us while Mark flips through a few stacks of Polaroids.

"How do you know I'm not writing crazy shit?" I ask him. "I could be writing teacher's names with little hearts around them or like, 'Mark loves heavy metal' or some shit like that."

"Because it would be terribly unfortunate for our friendship if you did that," he says, then holds up a couple shirtless pictures of me. "Unless of course you want all these pictures copied, blown up and taped around school."

I shrug. "Go for it. I'm used to being objectified by the student body."

He smiles in response and I go back to our homework. When we finally finish arguing over how detailed our history notes need to be, Mark's mom appears in the doorway, demanding that we come down for dinner. I put all our schoolbooks away, gather up all our plates and help Mark up before following him downstairs to his kitchen.


	12. Sparkly Kitties and Dive Bars

**Disclaimer: I don't own RENT. **

**Author's Note:** Hey everyone, it's your yearly chapter of IFAR!! First off, an apology! In the past year I've been very, very busy with real life shit and I didn't really have time to devote to this story. And when I did I was mostly job hunting. So I'm really sorry that it was again such a long wait! BUT the reason I've been busy is that I packed up my life and moved from Illinois to New York! So hold onto your hats for regional accuracy!

Also, we both want to thank you immensely for all the reviews we got for last chapter, (you know, the one that came out last year?) this fandom is mostly dead and we appreciate you guys taking the time to keep up with our story (especially since we've got a whole 12 chapters and we've been writing it for what, 2... 3 years? LAZY.)

We also both wanted to thank you hardcore for the reviews for last chapter. We are honestly very happy to know that so many of you still read this story and have kept with it despite a few years here or there between chapters. Please continue to help keep this fandom (marginally) alive! Thanks and enjoy!

**I Found a Reason  
Chapter Twelve** – _Sparkly Kitties and Dive Bars_**  
Mark's POV **

I'm flipping through a new box of 45s that Roger just bought while he's bent over my German homework, muttering under his breath and trying to make sense of the instructions for the assignment. I smile to myself, knowing that the instructions are written in German. He finally looks up at me and crosses his arms huffily over his chest.

"So I know I'm a bad person and broke your arm and everything, but if you want to know what the Germans are saying the next time they come to get you, don't you think you should really help me with your homework?" he asks and I smirk back at him. We've been meeting at my house nearly every day for the past two weeks so Roger could help me with my homework. He's still laboring under the impression that I'm right handed and thus, my ability to write out assignments is impaired, and I've never really bothered to correct him. It worked pretty well for awhile, he practically begged for the chance to do my Geometry homework and everything else was fairly routine stuff. But for the first time since I broke my arm I was given a fairly extensive assignment for German.

"Don't make Holocaust jokes, Roger," I chide him, taking my workbook from him and reading through the instructions.

He scoffs. "You do."

"Well, when your people suffer through one of the biggest tragedy's in the history of mankind, fifty years later I'm sure it will be socially acceptable for you to joke about it. Until then, I make the self-deprecating Jew jokes and you laugh and look guilty."

Roger rolls his eyes at me and looks over my shoulder at my workbook. I hand him back the pen and dictate what to write. I can't really say why I won't just do it myself. Maybe because it's strangely endearing how bad he feels and how willing he is to help. Maybe also because usually while he's doing my homework, I've been reading the books I checked out of the library about film and slowly piecing together how to work the camera I bought from the thrift store. It's an old 8mm Revere from the 50s. A pretty good little camera, from what I've read even though the lenses aren't really that great, and I think that back in the day it was probably considered a budget camera. Not really ideal for making real movies on, but not a bad starter for someone like me who knows nothing. My dad helped me get all the equipment, including a projector as antiquated looking as the camera and plenty of film to get me started. I finally figured out how to load the thing the other night and once I get a better handle of the controls, I'll try to convince Roger and Violet to be my first film subjects. They could have made the little knobs on the side a bit bigger, they're next to impossible to move. It has different settings for various kinds of lighting and weather and I can't help but grin like a dork at the sound it makes when the film is rolling. It's really loud but it makes me feel all authentic and shit. I can't wait to really test it out and finally attempt to playback the film on the projector.

Today though, Roger had dragged me out to his favourite suburban record store after Julian called to let him know that they were having a ridiculous sale on their 45s. Roger grabbed pretty much everything in sight and had brought the box to my house, saying that I could steal or borrow anything I wanted. Even though I have some vinyl, I'm not a collector like Roger. I also don't even own a record player anymore, but Roger said he's got an extra one that he'll fix up and donate to me. So far I've dug out three Elvis Costello ones that I feel fairly certain he bought with the intention of giving to me and I'm not even a third of the way through the box.

Eventually Roger tosses my German workbook back at me and gestures for me to hand him my Geometry. He pulls out his own book and does the assignment simultaneously, breezing through proofs that would have taken me the better part of an hour to work out.

"You're doing okay with Geometry, right?" he asks, not looking up. "Do you want me to go over anything?"

I smile, scooting closer and watching his work more closely. "No, I've been doing alright in class so far. Thanks for taking notes for me."

He nods, tapping his pencil against the page for a moment as he squints down at his writing, then he erases two steps and rewrites them as one. He can solve those fucking proofs quicker than anyone in the class. I would have needed at least ten to twelve to figure out the one he's working on, but he did it in four. Which in the end I guess doesn't matter, I still get the right answer, I just wish it came as easy to me.

"There's a Kink's one in there somewhere," he says when I move away and go back to the box of 45s. "You find the Devo one yet?"

"No, but I got Elvis Costello," I reply, as I flip through them. "And Leonard Cohen," I add as I almost flip past it.

He looks up for a moment and grins with his usual charming smugness before going back to our homework, still smiling. He hums to himself while drawing another triangle.

"Violet is coming over later, if that's cool," he says. "We're gonna work on our French homework together."

I smirk. "I can't help but find the idea of you taking French ridiculously amusing."

He grins wickedly. "Ridiculously sexy, you mean."

"You really need to get over yourself," I tease him. "You're not really this magnet of sexual attraction you imagine yourself to be."

Roger shrugs amicably. "I seem to keep pulling you back in," he says, comparing our Geometry homework side to side. He frowns slightly and erases a couple things on mine, probably to try to match my handwriting a little better.

"Only because you do my homework for me," I reply. "And I don't think you really need to worry about the handwriting. They know I broke my arm and they know you're my friend."

"I'm not worried about that," he says "I just wanted to make sure yours had a few mistakes so they think you did your own work."

He waits for a couple seconds while I'm giving him an offended scowl before laughing and shoving my notebook back at me. I roll my eyes while he digs through my backpack for the rest of my homework. He cracks open my history book and frowns down at the review assignment.

"Fuck history," he sighs, pulling out a clean sheet of paper and lifting his pen. I always hesitate to let Roger do my history homework because of how badly he does in class, but then I always remember it's only because he can't memorize all the facts. He's perfectly capable of looking up answers in the textbook. I go back to flipping through the box of 45s and listen to Roger singing under his breath and the scratch of his pen.

When my door opens I jump away from the box and huddle toward Roger, pretending to be absorbed in our homework. He makes a face at me before smiling at my mom who is holding a tray of sandwiches and soda. She sets it down in front of us, looking pleased that our schoolbooks are strewn across my room.

"Thanks, Mrs. Cohen," he says, charming her into giving him an indulgent smile back.

"No, thank you, Roger. I've been meaning to tell you how nice it is that you've been helping Mark with his homework."

He puts down his pen and snaps open a Coke. "I just figure he can't do too much with that cast."

My mom nods empathically. "Oh I know, imagine if he had broken his left arm! Then we really would have had some trouble, he can't do a thing with his right arm."

She smiles again. "You boys let me know if you need anything else," she says before slipping out my door and closing it quietly behind her.

I slowly inch away from Roger, who is currently giving me an almost amused glare.

"You made me carry your backpack!" he snaps.

I try to shrug it off. "You assumed…"

"I'm going to break your other arm!" he growls, lunging over our books at me and pinning me to the floor.

I fight to throw him off, but Roger is probably stronger than me on a good day and one of my arms, dominant or not, is useless at the moment. I bring my arms up to shield my face in case he's genuinely angry enough to hit me, but I find out quick enough this was a huge mistake. With my arms away from my body he uses the opportunity to begin the most hardcore tickle assault I have ever encountered. Within seconds I realize what he's doing and I flail uselessly, hitting him with my cast and knocking my glasses askew. He's grinning maniacally, fingers digging mercilessly into my sides while I writhe helplessly beneath him.

"Rog... don't… can't… breathe…!" I start laughing while begging him breathlessly to stop. When I feel like I cannot possibly handle another second he relents and when I open my eyes to look up at him, I see he's staring sheepishly at the doorway. I follow his gaze, and even though I can guess, I can't quite make out who's arrived. I fix my glasses and look again.

"Hey, Vi," I croak, completely winded. She hesitantly closes the door behind her, then to her credit, acts as if she sees this sort of thing every day. Which, considering she hangs around us, she sort of does.

Roger slowly untangles his limbs from mine before sliding off of me. He grabs my good arm and pulls me up to a sitting position. I straighten my shirt, pick up my history book and start my homework where Roger left off. He flips open his French textbook and moves over toward Violet and soon they're pointing at things in the book and muttering to each other in occasionally halting French. I frown down at my assignment. I'm not terrible at German, but I have always had difficulty sounding out the words and I definitely can't converse without guidelines on what to say first. It only takes me a couple minutes to realize that Roger is probably saying really ridiculous shit to Violet because she keeps giggling while filling in the answers on her homework. I try to listen, hoping to catch a couple cognates or something, but French seems to bear little resemblance to either English or German. Violet eventually waves me over, still giggling and I finally figure out Roger is critiquing the appearance of various people in his French book.

"_Il y a du monde au balcon_," he mutters, scribbling something into his notebook and Violet snorts.

"_Qui_?" she asks him and he points at a girl in the book whose only redeeming feature is her large chest. She looks really familiar. I glance at the other open page and see a few more familiar faces.

"Hey, those kids are in my German book!" I exclaim.

"_Ne me demande pas ça. Je n'ai pas de don naturel pour ce boulot_," Roger replies without looking up, not really interested. Violet laughs again and I roll my eyes and pull my textbook over to show them. Violet tilts her head and compares the pictures.

"They are the same, you're right. That's so weird," she agrees.

"What a scam. These kids probably aren't even foreign. They're probably just some regular American kids," I say.

"Which explains why they're all ugly," Roger says and Violet shoves him a little. He grins at her in response. After a moment he pokes her in the arm and leans close to her ear.

"_Tu peux garder un secret_?" he asks.

Violet winks at me. "_Probablement pas_."

Roger shrugs in response, then points at me, leering deviously. "_Il m'a souri et j'ai flashé sur lui, tout court_!"

Violet stares at him as if she doesn't quite know what to make of his comment while Roger grins. She looks over at me for a moment and then back at Roger, who starts laughing.

"_J'ai faim_!" he declares and helps himself to another sandwich.

"What did you say?" I demand, tossing my pen at him. I look over at Violet in desperation when Roger ignores me, choosing instead to pull the box of 45s over toward him and admire his purchases. "What did he say about me?"

Violet smiles in that same infuriatingly smug way I've been seeing more and more of lately.

"It's a secret."

* * *

Roger wasn't necessarily mad at me for conning him into doing my homework for over two weeks, but since he was mildly annoyed at missing so much band practice I'm not surprised when I don't see him for a few days outside of school. Since I have no homework and am getting bored at spending every day watching movies, when Roger leaves school for the third day in a row without waiting for me, I decide to invite Violet over instead. She smiles at me almost apologetically.

"Well, if you want to come over to my house we can hang out for a while. I have to do some baking," she says, taking a pack of gum out of her purse and offering it to me before taking a stick for herself.

"Baking? For who?" I ask, then remember. "Oh, your boy?"

She pops her gum and gives me a cheeky smile. "No, for yours."

"Where are you hiding Roger? And why are you baking for him?" I ask her.

She sighs. "Julian got a Sega. So their band practice now includes an extra three hours of pixilated fighting games. Roger called me last night and told me to bring some cookies or something over today while they're at practice," she gives me a pointed look. "Told, not asked."

"Yeah, he does that," I nod, smiling to myself. "At least you got invited to the Sega party."

"Well, you can't really play," she says kindly, gesturing to my cast. "He probably thought it would be more disappointing for you to be there."

I shrug indifferently, hating that I think my face is contorting into a pout. I don't pout. Roger does, occasionally, when he's being a brat, and I make fun of him for it.

Violet is smiling at me, her head slightly tilted, looking a little lost in thought.

"What?" I snap. "Stop looking at me like that."

"Oh Mark, stop pouting," she giggles, reaching over and ruffling my hair. I swat her away with my cast.

"I'm not," I insist.

She rolls her eyes, taking hold of my sleeve and pulling me toward her car. "Come on, we'll go bake some cookies and then we can make our boys feel really bad for abandoning us."

* * *

I attempt to hoist myself onto the counter in Violet's large kitchen while she piles baking ingredients next to me. Eventually I give up, scowling at my broken arm and take a seat in one of the chairs. She makes a face at me.

"I'm sure you'll prove to be as useless as Roger in terms of cookie making?" she asks.

"Moral support is an important part of the baking process," I insist. "At least I think that's what Roger tells his mom when we wait around for her to make us cookies."

"Sounds about right," she agrees, carefully taking some eggs out of the fridge and setting them on the counter next to her mixing bowl. She stands back for a moment, scrutinizing her baking materials. Seemingly satisfied, she pulls a pack of gum out of her sweater pocket and offers it to me before pulling out a piece for herself. Popping her gum loudly, she starts piling things into the mixing bowl.

"You're going to let me eat some of the cookie dough, right?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. Violet looks up with an amused smirk while beating the hell out of the mix in the bowl.

"That depends, I suppose," she says nonchalantly.

I frown. "On what?"

Her smile gets a little shy as she reaches for a big bag of chocolate chips. "Well, I've been meaning to ask you if you would consider taking some glamour shots of me and the boy. For you know, posterity and stuff?"

I return the smile. "Sure, Vi. If you can manage to haul Roger out of the way. He has this thing with cameras, you know. He likes to be in front of them."

She smirks. "No he doesn't. It's only because you're the one taking the pictures," she says dumping half the bag of chips into the cookie dough, pausing for the moment in thought and then emptying the rest into the bowl.

I stare at her in confusion. "Do we know the same Roger?"

"Definitely," she says patiently. "I'm just seeing something you're clearly not picking up on." She frowns. "I thought Roger was the thick one, but maybe I should have this conversation with him," she says mostly to herself, but I hear it anyway.

"Conversation about what?" I ask, completely bewildered now.

Violet shakes her head while scooping a big spoonful of the dough out of the bowl and holding it out to me.

"Nevermind," she says with her usual smirk back in place. "Do you think this has enough chips in it?"

* * *

When we arrive at Julian's house, balancing a couple plates of cookies precariously, Roger, Julian and the new guy in their band, Ian are huddled around an old television set playing a video game. I've forgotten about the awkward almost conversation about nothing I had with Vi earlier. None of them look up as we approach. Violet rolls her eyes at me.

"Guess we'll just eat these ourselves, Mark," she says loudly. "I mean, sure it's a whole lot of cookies for two people, but I'm sure we can manage…"

Roger looks up and fixes us with a grin before tossing his controller at Ian and stepping over his friends to greet us.

"Hey," he says, taking the plate I have balanced on top of my cast and pulling a cookie out from under the tin foil, "Help us name our band."

Julian appears next to him, taking another plate of cookies away from Violet and kissing her hello.

"Hey, none of that," Roger says, giving them a jokingly disapproving look. "What have I told you kids about that stuff."

Violet smiles fondly at him while Julian rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "You're just jealous you have no one to kiss, Roger."

Roger crosses his arms and leans against me with a haughty expression. "I can kiss whoever I want, I just don't feel like it," he insists.

"Apathetic Kisser," Ian says, coming up behind me and grabbing a cookie.

Julian and Roger make faces while Violet and I exchange a look.

"Huh?" I ask Roger, who shrugs.

"We're trying to name our band," he says. "So do like we do and just yell shit out if you think you've got something. We might even give you credit for it in our liner notes someday."

They give up on the video game for the moment, instead preferring to crowd around the old couch in the garage. Violet and Julian sit squished together on one end while I take the other corner. Ian sits on the floor leaning against the arm of the couch near my feet and after shutting off the game Roger pushes me against the arm and crowds into the middle of the couch.

"I still think we should pay some homage in the name," Roger says. "Can't we work a Lou Reed song title in there or something?"

"Like what, Sweet Jane Nostalgia?" Julian suggests.

"What the fuck do we have to be nostalgic about? We're 16," Roger says. "But yeah, that's the idea."

"I'm sort of nostalgic for having easy math homework," I muse and Roger laughs.

"I'm sort of nostalgic for those safety goggles you wore during little league," he teases. "You should really bring those back."

I frown at him. "I'm sort of nostalgic for times when you wore jeans that didn't clearly outline every feature of your anatomy to the general public."

Roger stretches halfway into my lap and grins smugly. "You only say that because you wanna be the only one who gets a decent look at my junk."

Julian snorts. "And I'm sure everyone would get nostalgic over a time when Roger was less full of himself, but I doubt there was one."

Roger rolls his eyes while everyone has a laugh at him. He kicks my leg. "C'mon Marky. You gotta have some ideas for us."

I shrug. "Well, what are you going for? Are you a 'the' group or do you just some random cool sounding words thrown together?"

Roger looks thoughtful. "I don't know, throw some cool words at me. Stick a 'the' in front of it. I'll decide if we can still be friends."

"But no pressure, Mark," Violet assures me, winking in my direction.

"The Insatiable Astronauts," Ian says. "I always wanted to be an astronaut."

"Was it due to an insatiable need for space travel?" I ask him. He looks completely lost in thought and doesn't respond. Roger and Julian laugh softly together. I get the impression this is a common occurrence with their new bandmate.

Roger leans back and starts throwing out probably whatever comes into his head.

"Undead Bingo, Troubled Yogurt, Lightsaber Vibrator…Epileptic Equine Explosion…." he sighs and then looks over at me. "What about Incredible Proficiency?" he suggests.

I snort. "At what, coming up with lame band names?"

Besides kicking me in the ankle again he ignores me. "Molly thinks we should name it something with 'princess' in the name," he says.

Julian smiles weakly. "I don't think we'll get much out of that."

"Well we could make it hardcore, sort of," Roger adds quickly. "Like uh," he looks thoughtful.

"Malevolent Princess," I suggest and Roger laughs. "Yeah, like that."

"If you're going the cutesy route I think there should be puppies involved," Violet says.

"Puppy Addiction," I offer and Violet giggles.

Roger makes a face. "Something a little more rock?"

"Serious Puppy Addiction?" I grin at Roger. "I would think a serious puppy addiction is pretty hardcore. It sounds well…"

"Serious," Violet says. Julian and Roger exchange an exasperated look.

"C'mon, Marky…" Roger says pleadingly.

"Mean Puppy?" I offer, looking over at Violet.

"Sinister Puppy?" she adds, looking over at Julian for approval.

"Wounded Puppy?" I ask Roger.

"You're sick, Marky. Why would I want someone associating my music with hurt puppies? I don't wanna hurt puppies," he says, giving me a disapproving look. Violet laughs at him.

"The Moveable Puppies?" she suggests.

"Aren't all puppies moveable?" Julian asks.

"I guess it depends if it's a nice puppy or not," Roger shrugs.

"Puppy Revival," says Ian. Roger laughs.

"Wouldn't there have to be an original Puppy first?" he asks Ian who shrugs.

"I'm up for it," Ian says.

Roger rolls his eyes again. "Something without puppies, maybe?" He looks over to me for help.

"Sparkly Kitties?" I ask innocently and he kicks me again.

* * *

A few hours later after we've all had a turn on the Sega, Roger, Julian and Ian officially declare the rehearsal a bust. We've also finished off the cookies which prompts Roger to insist we order pizza. While we wait I pull out my Polaroid and take a few pictures. It's been tricky getting the hang of holding the camera one handed, but I've managed it by now. I get a couple shots of Violet and Julian, most of which get stolen by Vi before they even develop. One that remains in my custody is of Vi scrunching up her face in fake discomfort while Julian kisses her cheek and gives the camera the finger. During this photoshoot Roger and Ian are haphazardly messing around with their instruments. Ian has breezed through two packs of cigarettes since I arrived, which I find both amazing and slightly worrisome. Roger attempts to mimic Ian's practiced way of playing bass and simultaneously smoking and not quite getting the hang of it and perpetually dropping his cloves.

After awhile I can tell Roger is being none too subtle about trying to get my attention and I relent and start taking pictures of him instead. Now having an audience he hams it up, sprawling as provocatively as possible across the old couch and doing his best to look cool, yet vaguely disinterested in the fact that someone is taking his picture. Shortly afterward the pizzas arrive and we busy ourselves in an attempt to devour them as quickly as possible. We quickly realize Julian has run out of Coke so me and Roger, vowing vengeance on the others if they don't leave us some pizza, volunteer to head out to buy some.

In the car Roger blasts some indecipherable punk music and sort of screams along with it for few minutes. When my ears start to feel like they're bleeding I stare him down and he grins and switches off the radio.

"Wanna go to a bar in the city tonight, Marky?" he asks. "I know a place that will let us in."

"Sounds shady," I say, regarding him with suspicion. He rolls his eyes.

"Where's your sense of adventure? I'm only suggesting we head out into the city unsupervised on a school night to get drunk and dry hump in a seedy bar. What have we got to lose?"

"Our virginity?" I suggest, raising an eyebrow.

He sighs. "I guess I should have worded that better. What do we have of value to lose?"

I let out a short laugh. "I sort of value my personal well being, but that's just me."

"Well you're clearly doing this whole irresponsible teenage boy thing wrong," Roger says as we pull into the parking lot of the supermarket. Roger gets out and leans against the side of the car. I join him and we stare at each other for a moment until I sigh in near defeat.

"How the fuck are we supposed to get back for school tomorrow morning if we get shitfaced in the city?"

Roger rolls his eyes again. "How the fuck should I know? My planning only goes as far as the mischief and mayhem. I don't really see much farther past that."

"Well, fine. Just us?" I ask.

He shrugs. "Probably. I don't think it's Vi's scene."

We start walking toward the store and Roger sneaks a few critical glances at me.

"We should punk you up a little bit, probably," he says. "Can I give you a Mohawk?"

"Yeah, you've already broken my arm, I'm not letting you near my head with anything sharp," I shoot back, my good arm going to my hair self-consciously. "What's wrong with my hair?"

"Nothing," he backpedals immediately. "I'm just saying. Maybe you should borrow something of mine to wear."

"Where the hell are you taking me?" I ask him, allowing my fingers to slowly slip out my hair.

"I know the guy who owns the place. He came to one of our shows once. He made fun of my band real bad, but we ended up talking after the show and he invited me to his bar whenever I want and told me if I ever get a decent group together I can play his club."

"Was this before or after he asked you if you'd like to star in an independent film with gratuitous sex scenes?" I ask him.

He laughs. "It's always about sex with you, Marky. I could fucking talk about ceiling panels and you'd relate it to sex."

"Well to be fair, I'm sixteen. Pretty much everything can be related to sex," I retort and Roger laughs.

"And by the way," I ask. "Are you saying that I'm a perv?"

"No, but I'm insinuating that you are," he says, grinning.

"Nice application of your weekly English vocabulary," I tease him.

He gives me a shove. "Piss off. I've got quite an extensive menagerie of four dollar words in my spacious cranial cavity."

I laugh. "And I'm sure by spacious you obviously mean vacuous."

He pouts at me for a minute, then gets distracted by trying to navigate the store. He saunters over to a guy stocking the shelves. Much to the chagrin of the employee Roger leans against a display with his thumbs through his belt loops.

"You wouldn't happen to know where we could score some Coke, do you?" he asks the guy who gives him a hard look then rolls his eyes.

"Aisle 12," he grunts and goes back to work.

Roger shrugs and heads back toward me. "We need to find aisle 12," he announces.

"Have you ever considered not being as obnoxious as possible whenever you're faced with a social situation?" I ask him.

Roger just grins and messes up my hair.

"Hey Marky," he says. "Why did the astrophysicist order a cheeseburger?"

"Because his life long ambition and the pinnacle of his years spent in college was to be the punchline of your lame joke?"

Roger rolls his eyes. "No, because he was hungry. Obviously."

"I like my line better," I tell him as we pass some cereal on our quest for Cokes. At this point Roger begins picking up pretty much everything on the shelves and putting all the items back in the wrong places. He makes the mistake of doing this directly in front of an employee, who chases us all the way back to produce yelling about inconsiderate punk kids.

"Shit," I sigh when we lose sight of the stock guy. "I don't remember where the hell we came from. What aisle was it?"

Roger suddenly laughs loudly. "So would you say we're lost in the supermarket, Marky?" he asks before dissolving into what sounds suspiciously like giggles and starts singing about being lost in the supermarket. I don't even bother interfering after this point.

"_I can no longer shop happily, I came in here for that special offer..." _Roger is still singing, not minding at all that other people are staring at him. My face is burning but I can't help laughing.

"Roger, c'mon," I say. "We need to get back before they eat all the pizza."

That seems to pull him out of his dance party and he grudgingly helps me locate the soda aisle. We grab a couple cases of Coke and haul them up to the register.

"_I've got my giant hit discoteque album, I empty a bottle and I feel a bit free_," Roger sings to the cashier as he digs some cash out of the tight pockets on his black jeans. She raises an eyebrow, but giggles none the less and he winks at her. It's always weird to see Roger actively flirt with someone considering how much he avoids his fanclub at school. Reluctantly I start recalling the half conversation I had with Violet earlier. It seems ridiculous to me. Roger loves the spotlight. He loves being on stage and he loves being the center of attention. Then I start to remember how awkward he looks talking to people at his gigs and how embarrassed he used to get over my constant picture taking. It seems like something I should have noticed before, but maybe I just didn't notice that the Roger I see isn't the one anyone else knows. I smile to myself. Except for Violet apparently.

* * *

When we get back to the garage there are two tiny pieces of pizza left and Violet has been amusing the other guys by drawing comic book interpretations of them. Julian's pictures show slightly more muscle tone than his wiry arms typically display, although he's mostly surrounded by doodles of unicorns and kittens. He seems pleased none the less. She finishes her drawing of Ian and hands it over to him, depicting him as a sort of super villain whose main power seems to be the ability to collect large amounts of comic books, which are seen in stacks all around his character.

He actually stops looking spaced out to smile. "I love this drawing," he drawls. "I'm dating it, we're so in love." He gives it a choice place in his bass case and lights up another cigarette. Julian and Roger exchange a look and both laugh under their breath when they look away.

We all hang out awhile longer, finishing off about half a case of Coke before Ian calls it a night and heads out. Me and Roger leave soon after him, headed over to Roger's house to get ready for our evening entertainment. Molly attacks Roger with a big hug when he opens the door. He picks her up and turns toward me.

"Look, Molly," he says, teasing her gently. "I brought your boyfriend Mark over. Say hi!"

Molly's little face turns pink and she buries her head in Roger's shoulder and mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like "wicked lame", which just makes Roger laugh harder. When he puts her down I try to wave at her but she turns quickly and runs into the kitchen.

"She's picked up your vocabulary now?" I ask him, raising an eyebrow.

He shrugs and grins widely. "She doesn't know it yet, but her next birthday I'm passing Dad's old Les Paul onto her."

"Because what the world needs is a female Roger Davis?"

"Well yeah. Just like me. Maybe a little sassier," he adds thoughtfully, heading toward the kitchen. His mom is curled up on the sofa reading to Audrey who is adding her own commentary to the story. Mrs Davis smiles at Roger when he plops on the couch beside her for a moment to kiss her cheek and mess up Audrey's hair.

"No, Roger. Lame!" she giggles and Roger beams. Mrs Davis smiles.

"You know, since Audrey picks up everything you say maybe you can spend a little extra time with her this week on her colours and numbers? I think she'll listen to you more than Sesame Street," she says.

"Please, Mom," Roger sighs. "Audrey knows her colours." He points to his hair. "What colour is Roger's hair, Audrey?"

"Billy Idol!" She announces and Roger grins proudly at their mother.

"Roger, you can teach your sisters about rock and roll when they've learned how to talk properly, okay?" she says in a slightly more serious tone, but still smiling.

Roger sighs. "Alright. Audrey, Roger has white hair. White like the White album. Or 'The White Room'."

Mrs Davis swats him away. "Oh get out. Go cause trouble or something."

Roger grins at me. "You hear that, Marky? We have mom's permission. Trouble she wants, trouble she gets."

He drags me up to his room and immediately starts digging through his closet, finally surfacing with a pair of jeans identical to his own and a tattered black t-shirt. I make a face which he ignores as he shoves the clothes at me and grabs a tub or hair gel from the table next to his bed.

He digs some of the gunk out of the tub and does an impressive job of spiking his hair without a mirror. When he's done he grabs the eyeliner pencil that was sitting next to the hair gel and heads for the bathroom mirror. I take the opportunity to attempt to pull on the tight jeans Roger has provided for me. Getting these to fit would probably be a tough task with two good arms and with a big cast it proves to be quite a struggle, and they're about halfway up my hips when Roger walks back in with his eyes lined with a messy ring of black. He snorts and collapses on his bed, leaning back and crossing his arms, fully prepared to enjoy the show. I glare at him.

"Is this really necessary?" I ask, annoyed. "I've already got a giant plaster arm, how cool do you think I'm going to be?"

Roger sighs. "Hence the clothes, Marky. Normally I'd just let you dork the place up, but I'd rather have people assume you got kicked to death at a punk show than know you fell off the monkey bars."

We argue about it half-heartedly for a few minutes until I remember that I'm showing a good few inches of underwear that the tight crotch of the jeans, not even fully in place, is pushing into a really uncomfortable position.

"This is totally not going to work. These are fucking tight on you and you're scrawnier than I am," I insist, doing my best to push them down with one arm. "I'm just gonna have to be the token nerd again."

Roger shrugs. "Suit yourself. But if anyone asks, just say 'you shoulda seen the other guy' and sort of sneer, okay?"

"Yeah, whatever," I mumble, trying to wiggle out of the tight jeans.

Roger rolls his eyes. "Marky, you're hopeless, seriously," he says, standing up and heading toward me. I recoil slightly.

"You are not depantsing me," I tell him firmly.

"Don't be such a girl. I change next to you in the locker room everyday," he scoffs. "Unless of course you want to keep standing here fumbling with your crotch like a drunk cripple. Because by all means, please continue, it's hilarious."

"Fine, whatever," I grumble, but stand still. He smirks at me and then I feel his hands on my hips tugging on the jeans.

"Fuck, Roger, pants only," I yell when my underwear slides down half an inch from the friction with the pants.

"You know, if you just went commando it would save you a lot of trouble," he muses.

I raise an eyebrow. "Well, yeah. Except I'd be naked right now."

"Oh_ quel dommage_," he says dramatically.

Great, more French. "Did you like, get a gold star in French or something this week? Stop showing off."

Roger grins and teases me about how I'm just jealous that he's more cultured. Or something. We finally get our shit together and after I use the phone to let my mom know I'm 'sleeping over at Roger's house' (quite a risky maneuver since his mom could have potentially been within hearing distance when we made the call), we head out in Roger's car for the city. Roger humours me by busting out a Blondie tape for the drive which definitely gets me back in the mood for a night out. We sing along together for awhile, then talk for a bit when Roger asks me if I've figured out how to work my thrift store camera yet. We end up parking in an incredibly shady looking all night parking 'garage' about a hundred miles from the bar which is somewhere on the lower east side. Roger doesn't seem bothered by this at all, but he does comment that he can't wait to live in the city and not have to worry about parking ever again.

The bar Roger leads me to is the very definition of a hole in the wall. There's not even a sign outside the building, just a dark staircase leading to the basement of a seedy looking restaurant. At the bottom of the stairs there's a bored looking guy who looks to be in his late twenties leaning against a heavy metal door and smoking. When he sees Roger his face lights up.

"Hey, it's the punk rock princess," he says, leering at Roger. "You know when you don't show up for a long time, I start thinking you don't like my club."

"Well I'm here now, aren't I?" Roger asks with a charming grin. "I even brought a buddy. Free drinks, right?"

The guy gives him a weary look. "How fucking old are you, 15?"

"What you don't know doesn't hurt you, man," Roger says, leading the guy to shrug with indifferent agreement and dig a few drink tickets out of his pocket.

"Just tip the bartender, alright?" Roger nods and the guy shuffles out of the way and pulls open the door. The creepiest fucking staircase I have ever seen is behind it and I soon find out it's also the steepest once Roger starts pushing me toward it.

"How the fuck do people navigate this while drunk?" I ask, but my question is drowned out by a wall of indecipherable noise that must be music wafting up the staircase. Downstairs the basement looks like a dungeon. Everything is painted black, it smells like vomit and cigarettes and there's one dim lightbulb suspended in the middle of the room which does little to provide any real light source. I panic momentarily when Roger disappears from behind me and I'm left standing in the middle of a crowd of people who look a lot like Roger but a whole lot less friendly. A minute later, while I'm turning in frantic circles squinting to see through the dark Roger reappears beside me and shoves a drink in my hand. He yells something in my ear I don't understand and then drags me toward the back of the club.

I am so not cut out for this, I think to myself, taking a drink out of the plastic cup in my hand. It tastes like motor oil and acid and possibly something carbonated. I'm totally leaving this unattended somewhere as soon as Roger isn't paying attention. Let him get shit-faced. I'll stay lucid enough to drive us back later.

Roger is moshing in place, his drink half gone already. I can't help but smile. At least one of us is having fun. It is sort of exciting in that "what the fuck am I doing here" sort of way. It's even more fun when I take a moment to think of what my mother would say if she really knew where I was. But after a minute it's not quite so funny as it is scary and above all else, my mother can never find out that I've been anywhere even vaguely similar to this bar. Then I start thinking about the fact that both Roger and I lied to our parents about where we were. I guess we could go to one of our houses, but coming in near dawn without an explanation on a school night would be slightly unforgivable at least on my mom's scale of acceptable teenage behavior.

Roger has disappeared again and it feels like close to an hour before I finally find him. I sort of stumble around looking for him, tripping over people who have fallen down drunk ages ago. I spare them a moment of concern, wondering how they're going to manage to get out without being trampled.

I make my way across the club and soon discover I'm not really a big fan of this side. The band is playing right in front of front and the busted looking speakers on the floor are vibrating, almost jumping from the volume of the noise they emit. The lead singer is screaming, and everyone around me is doing a strange combination of dancing and fighting.

I try to think of it from an artistic standpoint. Filming this would be sort of awesome, at least without the audio, but getting decent footage while being tossed back and forth among a mob of punks would prove difficult. But then again, that might be the only way to really do it right. My best pictures of Roger's shows are from when I braved the crowd and got up near the front row to really capture the feeling on the stage. Or when I immersed myself in the crowd and took pictures of our classmates dancing and having fun. I sigh heavily. This is a part of the process I'll have to get used to. Joining in a crowd but remaining separate enough to keep an artists perspective.

I shake my head, suddenly feeling sort of light-headed. I can't tell if it's from the alcohol I had before or from the smoke clogging out the oxygen, but I mostly just wonder what the hell I'm thinking about. I haven't even decided what I want to film yet. I really think I want to try writing some scripts or something. I don't know how good of a writer I am though. But trying that path out would probably get me farther than filming punk shows.

I think I spot a shock of white bleached hair across the room, which pulls my brain back into the noisy, dirty bar I'm in. While I squint, attempting to pick Roger out of a crowd of other pierced and bleached kids, some guy trips over a drunk and spills whatever he was drinking on me.

He glares first at his empty cup and then me, then appears to be yelling something at me.

I shrug indifferently in response and lose myself in the crowd, still looking for Roger. I'm heading across the bar again, thinking I finally recognize the blond hair when someone grabs me from behind. I spin around to come face to face with Roger, who is grinning like an idiot and apparently still in the mood for more dancing.

I grudgingly take the new drink he shoves at me and let him lead me back toward the band and directly into a pocket of especially violent dancing. This is not a pleasant atmosphere for my poor casted arm, which suffers multiple hits from flailing limbs and errant projectiles. I spill a good portion of my drink on my pants while attempting to dance with Roger. There's really not a whole lot of personal space for dancing available. We're mostly sort of jumping in place. Roger is possibly head banging. He also might be playing air guitar occasionally, which I can't wait to give him shit about later. At this point I pretty much decide we're not getting out of here anytime soon, and despite my earlier reluctance to join in, I sort of want to stay for awhile. I stare down at my cup for a moment and then close my eyes and gulp down the remainder of what's in it.

When I finally stop coughing and gagging, I think Roger is sort of laughing at me while also keeping a hand on my shoulder to steady me. When my eyes start to focus on things again we resume our dancing. The later it gets, the louder the music and the more active the crowd. I get pushed into Roger frequently and we eventually just end up dancing practically on top of each other. Roger is great at slipping through the crowd to find more alcohol. The burning taste stops registering after a while and soon I'm downing drinks with barely a grimace.

* * *

The first thing I'm conscious of is that my head is practically vibrating. My ears are buzzing. When I try to open my eyes the barest hint of light forces me to squeeze them shut again and bury my face further into my pillow. My second thought is that my pillow feels sort of hard and bony today. A lot less like a pillow and a lot more like…

I force my eyes open and squint. Where the hell are my glasses? My pillow moves and then something hits me in the back of the head.

"Ow, what the fuck?" I can hear the words, but they sound distant and strangely low. I can't feel myself talk.

"Sorry, Marky," I hear someone mumble almost incoherently. I start feeling around me for my glasses. I'm fucking blind without them, this isn't good.

Someone taps my arm and then shoves my glasses into my hand. I sigh with relief and shove them onto my face, blinking against the light and taking in my surroundings. It's a room of a cheaply furnished by relatively clean apartment. I'm stretched out on a couch half on top of Roger, whose shoulder was serving as my pillow previously.

"Oh good, you kids made it through the night," someone says. "I was worried I'd have to dump you in the bottom of the stairwell and make it look accidental."

I can hear Roger laugh weakly. "Thanks man, we owe you."

"Whatever," the guy says, losing interest. "Just get the fuck off my couch."

He starts to leave the room then pauses. "Come back soon. Bring more of your friends. And some fucking money," he says, then heads back into what's probably his bedroom.

I realize then that it's the guy who owned the bar we were at last night that Roger knows. Wait, last night? Is it morning?

"Roger? What fucking time is it?" I ask in my far away voice and when I look up at him I see his expression slide from groggy to slightly horrified. He looks back at me.

"Fucking dammit, we need to get home," he says panicked.

I try to sit up and grab my head when a sudden sensation of dizziness hits me. I moan and look down helplessly at Roger.

"Please tell me you think you can drive?" I plead.

He nods. "I need some water and some aspirin, but yeah, I can drive."

He looks pretty horrible, his eyeliner smudged all around his bloodshot eyes but he seems to be in better shape than I am. We untangle ourselves and slip out of the apartment, stopping at the first bodega we find to buy some water and aspirin. It's seems really early still, maybe 6am, I guess. We stumble back to the parking garage and get Roger's car back. He immediately turns his music on loudly and gives me an apologetic look.

"I need the noise or I'm gonna fall back asleep, Marky," he says and I nod in agreement.

"Whatever, it's cool, just get us home," I sigh, looking toward the clock on the dash and confirming that I was about right. It's a little after six.

"Oh fuck," Roger groans. "I left all my school shit at home."

He looks over at me. "I can drop you off at school if you want, so you won't be late."

I shake my head. "Don't worry about it. I'll just wait in the car, it's fine."

Roger lets out a half-hearted laugh. "We look like hell, going to school is going to be ridiculous."

I nod vaguely. "Hopefully no one will notice that I'm going to sleep during half of my classes."

Roger sighs. "I hate that I'm about to say this, but we are never doing this shit on a school night again."

I start to laugh, then give up when the action makes my head start pounding again. We spend the rest of the drive in mostly silence besides the loud music in the car, both of us too tired and worried to really talk. Roger chainsmokes most of the way, going through his pack of cloves much quicker than usual. When we turn onto Roger's street he sighs heavily.

"I really wish Mom would still be asleep but I know she's up by now. Maybe I can sneak in, you think?" he says, mostly to himself.

I give him a lazy nod of agreement as he pulls up to his driveway and parks the car.

"Huh," he says. "Wonder whose car that is?"

I look up and feel my heart drop into my stomach. That looks a whole hell of a lot like…

"Oh fuck, Roger," I moan. "That's my mom's car."

He looks over at me, his bloodshot eyes wide. We stare at each other in silence for a moment and then he sighs miserably.

"Well, it was nice knowing you, Marky."

I nod. "You too."

We wait a second longer, then accept our fate and stumble out of the car toward the house. We're almost to the door when we see it open and Molly's little head poke out.

"Roger, you're in lots of trouble," she giggles, running out to him and grabbing his arm.

Roger manages a weak smile, bringing his cigarette up to his lips instead of responding. Unfortunately right at that moment our mothers rush out of the house and corner us on the driveway. Roger's mom gives him a particularly scathing look.

"Roger Davis, are you smoking?" she inquires in a mom voice that is the perfect mixture of disappointment and incredulity. Roger's eyes go wide and we both finally notice that he forgot to toss his cigarette before we got out of the car. He throws it aside quickly and looks down at Molly for help.

"Quick, think of something cute to say," he pleads. When Molly's only response is another giggle he sighs heavily and we exchange a final sympathetic smile before my mother grabs my good arm and drags me toward our car.

* * *

**French Translations:**

_Il y a du monde au balcon_  
She's got big tits (Literally: The balcony is crowded.)

_Ne me demande pas ça.  
_Don't ask me that.

_  
Je n'ai pas de don naturel pour ce boulot  
_I'm not cut out for this job.

_Tu peux garder un secret  
_Can you keep a secret?

_Probablement pas_  
Probably not

_Il m'a souri et j'ai flashé sur lui, tout court!  
_He smiled at me and I fell for him, just like that!  
(Roger is definitely saying this as a joke (at least he thinks he is ^_^). He's not making a declaration of love... yet.)

_  
J'ai faim  
_I'm hungry

_Quel dommage  
_What a shame/pity


	13. Shakespeare Scholars and Shoebox Cameras

**Disclaimer: I don't own RENT.**

**Author's Note:** you guys are cool with an update once a decade right?

**I Found a Reason**

**Chapter Thirteen –** _Shakespeare Scholars and Shoebox Cameras_

**Roger's POV**

Unfortunately for me, my dad answered the phone last night when Mark's mom called to talk to him. I probably would have gotten off pretty light if Mom was the only one who knew. She's not really big on discipline. She's one of those parents who would rather tear your guts out by giving you one of those "I'm so disappointed in you" speeches. Which I got, mostly in regards to smoking. And especially for smoking in front of Molly. To be honest, I'm pretty annoyed at myself about that. I don't really know why I started smoking, but I don't particularly want to encourage either one of my little sisters to start, nor did I really want them (or my parents, obviously) to know I do.

So because of my dad's insatiable need to overcompensate at parenting, I'm currently walking to the bus stop in the same clothes I wore last night and preparing myself to deal with not having my car for an indefinite amount of time. Getting to band practice would be my biggest problem, but I'm banned from that as well. Although I'm fairly certain my mom will budge on that in a day or two. Although being allowed to go doesn't do me any good if I have no way to get there.

I feel like fried hell. My clothes smell slightly of alcohol and strongly of smoke. I haven't showered, washed my hair or even brushed my teeth. I have Dad to thank for that. I was running late as it was and by the time he was done lecturing and listing off the shit I was banned from I had barely enough time to grab my books and get on my way before I missed the bus. I was seriously considering ditching, but I didn't have anywhere to go without a car, and I really wanted to make sure Momma Cohen hadn't killed Mark. So I had to go.

I approach the corner where a group of underclassmen have gathered. The bus is coming up the street toward us so I strut over toward the haphazard line and sneer at the freshman closest to the curb who promptly sidesteps to allow me to get in front of him. No way some underling is getting a seat on this ride to hell over me. A couple kids further back in the line give me dirty looks, but none of them appear ballsy enough to say anything.

I squeeze down the narrow aisle and head for an empty row in the back. I drop into the seat, slumping low and leaning my head against the window while tossing my backpack on the seat next to me. This is so fucking humiliating. I wonder how Mark is faring, hoping his mom went easy on him. I feel pretty bad about getting him in trouble, since the whole thing was my idea. Hopefully we'll both be out of trouble in time for winter break. I can't wait to waste the time doing absolutely nothing but hanging out. I think another sleepover is in order, at least. And a big boozy Christmas party. And for once doing something on New Years instead of watching the ball drop on TV with my mom. Not to mention whole days to dedicate to band practice, which would be amazing. We're getting pretty good, the three of us sound killer together. We haven't worked on much original stuff yet, but we've learned a bunch of awesome covers and we could be performance ready in another month or so, probably, so we've also been looking for venues who will book us. Two of the places we played before as Alchemy's Revenge are willing to let us play, and another place sounded like a good possibility but wants either a demo CD or a preview set first. But we're also really hoping to branch out of the suburbs at some point and start playing in the city. Unfortunately we still need to come up with a name before we can play anywhere.

On the way to the locker room I literally run into Mark. At least someone's parents let him change and have a shower before school, though it doesn't look like he had a chance to comb his hair. He raises an eyebrow, I nod in response and we turn around and head for the wrestling balcony instead. Neither one of us is really in the mood for gym class. I guess we never are, but I felt today our leave of absence from changing into our seldom washed gym clothes and getting dodge balls thrown at us by senior jocks was pretty justified. I pick the lock on the door and we head up the stairs, tossing our bags on the ground at the top. I turn to look at Mark.

"You?" I ask, leaning against the wall and pulling out my last pack of cloves.

He sighs heavily. "No TV, cameras, music, movies, dessert, or leaving the house under any circumstance except for school."

"Shit, your parents are hardcore," I say in amazement.

"Well, what about you?" he asks, adjusting his glasses.

I shrug. "No car, no going out, frequent looks of perpetual disappointment."

Mark winces in sympathy. "Yeah, Dad gave me the disappointment speech."

I nod, flicking open my lighter and holding it to my cigarette.

"I always get it from my Mom. Dad just tries to make up for not being around by giving out hardcore punishments. But since my mom is the one who enforces them, they don't usually last."

Mark is giving me a strange look. "What?" I ask him, confused.

"No car?" he asks. "How did you get to school?"

I scowl and blow smoke at him. "I took the bus," I mumble, not looking at him.

"The bus?" he asks with mock terror. "But you're an upperclassmen, that's social suicide."

"Yeah, well, I'm not doing it anymore. I'm just gonna walk," I grumble. "You know, I thought the bus was bad when we were underclassmen. But riding it now was like doing a walk of shame except everyone knows your clothes are on backwards because you got too drunk to remember how pants worked after indulging in some public urination, not because you got laid."

Mark snorts. "I like how you're pulling that frame of reference completely out of your ass. When the hell have you ever done a real walk of shame?"

"Well, as I just said, it was like a shame strut without the sex. Which are, to date, the only kind I've had."

I roll my eyes when Mark smirks at me. "Yeah, okay, laugh it up, Casanova. But only if you regale me with the epic tales of_ your_ many sexual conquests."

Mark shrugs, unfazed. "Why don't I pick you up from the bus stop?" he offers with, still maintaining a slightly smug smile while I glower at him.

"How the hell do you still get your car?" I demand.

He shrugs. "It probably helped that my car wasn't the getaway vehicle," Mark gives me an amused grin. "Plus, I'm not the 'bad influence'."

I straighten up and can't help but smile a little.

"Really? Bad influence, huh?" I ask earnestly and he nods. "Fucking killer."

Mark rolls his eyes. "Yeah, you're such a badass. I'll try to remember that next time I catch you playing Barbies with your sisters."

"I wasn't playing Barbies," I retort, slumping against the wall and flicking some ash off my cigarette.

"No, you were just helping to cut and color their hair like Cyndi Lauper and making little paper guitars. You weren't playing at all," he teases. "And why the fuck are you still smoking?"

"Just a habit," I shrug, taking another drag. Neither parent thought of emptying my pockets before I left this morning and one habit I don't have is wasting cigarettes.

"Just don't slip up and smoke in front of my parents," Mark says, suddenly serious. "If you hadn't been over all the time the past few weeks pretending to do my homework for me I don't think we'd be allowed to hang out anymore."

"Pretending? I fondly remembering actually doing it," I protest. "Including the assignments that weren't in English."

He smiles half-heartedly at his shoes. And I sigh.

"I'm sorry for getting you in trouble," I offer in a softer voice, nudging his non-broken arm with my elbow. "And I'm glad your parents don't completely hate me yet, but come on. I'm charming as hell, I'll win them over again."

He rolls his eyes again but finally smiles. "It was worth it, I had fun," he assures me. "I mean sure, it was sort of embarrassing, painful and definitely the catalyst that will lead to my swearing off alcohol forever, but still fun."

"Oh come on, Marky. You can't give up on it now. We've got a whole winter break ahead of us to booze it up without having to worry about school."

He winces. "Yeah, assuming we're allowed out by then."

"Don't be such a spaz, even if we're not there are ways around that minor inconvenience," I assure him.

He scowls. "I'm not a spaz. And not to be a downer, but maybe we shouldn't lie and sneak out when we're being punished for lying and sneaking out?"

"Marky when have I ever done you wrong, honestly?" I ask, putting out my cigarette on the gym floor.

Mark raises an eyebrow in response.

I roll my eyes. "Okay besides getting you grounded and breaking your arm and turning your desk around every morning before school when we were in fourth grade, when else?"

Mark glares at me. "That was you?"

"Who the fuck did you think it was? Of course it was me. Thanks to alphabetical seating charts in grade school I got to mess with you all the time."

"Are you the reason I have never once in my younger academic life had a chair that didn't wobble?"

I hide a smile behind the hand holding my clove and nod.

"Oh, what?" I ask when he gives me a dirty look, "Like you don't remember that time you accidentally on purpose directed me to the wrong classroom when I got lost in second grade?"

"How is that comparable to constant emotional torment? Wobbling chairs are like Chinese Water Torture. But worse. You've given me a complex," he snaps, but he's sort of smiling.

"I'd say it was pretty bad considering you sent me to a classroom full of merciless fifth graders."

"Well I only did it because you made me barf on the tire swing during recess."

"You told me you wanted to go really, really fast. I don't see how that's my fault."

"Um, maybe because I was yelling 'stop I'm going to barf'?"

I shrug. "I thought you were being hyperbolic."

Picking on Mark is fun, which is why I've been doing it so long and even though we weren't technically friends, we were usually school acquaintances and got along pretty well. It was just one of those things where you like someone but you have separate friend groups that for whatever reason don't mix. And keeping up that sort of social relationship usually goes beyond the capabilities of an 8 year old. And we weren't always antagonizing each other. There were lots of times when Mark stood up for me. Because while being tall and thin and wearing punky clothes doesn't necessarily leave me free of ridicule now, I've at least learned that looking pissed off at the same time tends to make people think twice before yelling some bullshit at me or trying to get in my face. But as a kid it's a lot harder to deal with when you look different, even if you're doing it on purpose, and I wasn't really a badass yet. It helped to have a likeable kid lots of people got along with on my side.

Mark is rubbing his eyes and looking pretty tired. Which is fair, considering how little sleep we got. I feel the same way and I don't know if I'll make it through the full day of classes, especially after I let out a yawn loud and hard enough to make my jaw feel like it's cracking off. Mark checks his watch.

"Do you think we'd wake up in time for Chem if we took a nap?" he asks. I shrug.

"Probably not. But I don't really care. I'm wicked tired," I say, positioning my backpack near the wall and sliding down to rest my head on it. Mark frowns, probably debating whether possibly ditching two classes in one day after all the trouble we got in last night would be worth it, but eventually fatigue wins out and he lies down as well, but uses his hoodie for a pillow instead of his backpack. We're taking a pretty big risk. Gym is really easy to ditch. They almost never take attendance and even if they miss you it's fairly easy to pretend you were just late and still changing during the roll call. Ditching a real class like Chemistry is bordering on being both stupid and reckless. Walking in more than a couple minutes late, especially if we show up together, will get us each at least detention and possibly a phone call to our parents. Which at this moment would make it a good idea to at least just go and sleep through class, but I'm exhausted and still slightly hung over and my body has punked out on me and is in full sleep mode. I'll be lucky if I wake up before lunch. The last thing I hear is Mark making little whistle snore noises next to me.

* * *

Someone is shaking my shoulder and hissing in my ear.

"Roger, wake up!"

I groan and swat at the voice, before rolling over and burying my head under my arms.

"Mark, come on! It's almost fifth period!"

Mark makes an irritated noise of protest and the voice makes an impatient noise and I get a light but pointy kick in the leg. I'm suddenly awake, gripping my shin and glaring up at Violet.

"Why don't you kick him?" I snap, grumpily pushing myself up to sit leaning against the wall. I feel more rested but I have a killer headache. I wonder if Violet has any aspirin in her bottomless purse.

"I'm up, don't kick me," Mark might be saying, but his voice is so garbled by sleep it's hard to make out the exact words.

"Have you been up here since first period?" she asks us, her brow knit in concern. Sure enough, when she sees me rubbing my temples she digs into her purse for a moment and then tosses me a little bottle of pills. I take a couple and swallow them dry before passing them over to Mark.

I nod sleepily. "What time is it?" I ask her.

"It's after 11. We need to go to Geometry," she says. "Come on."

"How did you know we were up here?" Mark asks, gathering up his stuff.

"I didn't. But you weren't in History and I asked Kathy if she'd seen you in Chem and she and her friend Emily swore they saw you two together before gym class. So I wanted to see if you were either ditching without me or you'd forgotten to go to class."

"We're going to be in so much trouble," Mark mutters to himself and I can't help but agree with him. Any chance of leniency during this punishment is going to be nonexistent once my mom finds out I ditched half a day of school.

"Come on, the bell is going to ring in a minute," Violet says, pushing us toward the door. "And holy hell, Roger. You look awful." She fishes a compact out of her purse and shoves the little mirror in my face.

I feel myself pale and Mark sniggers at my reaction. I have giant rings of smudged eyeliner under my eyes and oh God… my hair is a mess. It's flat in several places and sticking straight out in others and it's greasy from gel... I close my eyes. I can't bear to look at it.

"Okay," Violet says. "Mark, go to class. I'll try to fix Roger a little."

I give him the finger when he continues to laugh under his breath. He just smiles and heads out the door to the hallway.

Violet dabs some junk on a tissue and wipes it beneath my eyes. Makeup remover, probably. When she's satisfied that I no longer look like a corpse, she digs out a little brush, some baby power and another small bottle. I hear the bell ring as she quickly brushes through my hair, then sprinkles some baby powder on her hands and rubs them together. She catches my confused look.

"It hides grease," she says as she combs her fingers through the worst bits. "Real handy if you don't have time to wash it or are stuck somewhere without a shower." When I'm powdered up she squirts out a little of what is probably hair product onto her hand and gives me an apologetic smile.

"It's girl stuff. You're going to smell like pomegranates," she warns me and I shrug.

"I've smelled like worse," I tell her and she laughs a little and works the product through my hair. When I check out her handiwork I sigh in relief. I still look exhausted but my hair is back in order and the smudged makeup is gone. I give her a quick hug and then we take off jogging toward Geometry together.

* * *

Mark and I had been called to the office right before Geometry ended. It hadn't been pleasant, but as far as school punishments went we got off easy. We'd both gotten only a Saturday detention. While annoying and boring, it could have been worse. We know the real trouble will be when we get home after school. But we're trying to be optimistic and enjoy our last few hours before our parents kill us both and report us as runaways.

It's gotten too cold to eat outside during lunch, so the three of us were forced to find a table in the lunchroom. Not an easy feat on a normal day, and today we're running late and nearly all of the tables are already full.

"I could scare off some freshmen," I offer, catching sight of a choice table near a window currently inhabited by some tiny underclassmen.

"Behave," Mark chides me. A moment later he touches my arm and when I look over he points to a smaller table in a back corner. We reluctantly hurry toward it, and steal an extra chair from another table so all three of us can sit down. The cafeteria is loud and we're cramped for space but since Mark and Vi appear to be trying to make the best of it, I sigh in defeat and decide not to whine. Then I roll my eyes in exasperation. I didn't have time to pack a lunch. I let my head fall forward and bang onto the lunch table.

"Want half of my sandwich?" Mark asks me.

"How did you have time to make a lunch?" I ask him, taking the half he offers me. Violet pushes her bag of pretzels to the middle of the table.

Mark raises an eyebrow. "You think my mom would let me leave for school without one?"

Violet asks us about the events that led to us falling asleep in the wrestling balcony and missing four classes. We take turns elaborating, and though there are big gaps in our memory over last night, we're pretty sure they can easily be explained away by two words. Alcohol. Dancing.

After lunch Mark and Violet head off to English together and I spend most of History staring down at my textbook, the words blurring together as I try to keep my eyes open. Today is just all around lame and I just want to get home and sleep for about eighteen hours. But school continues to drag. I can't even pay attention in Music Theory. My teacher notices, but thankfully decides to let it go for today.

Mark is waiting at my locker for me after school.

"You want a ride?" he offers. "I'll drop you off a block or two from your house so your parents won't know."

"Please," I sigh with relief. I was feeling too lazy to walk and dreading the idea of taking the bus again. We head towards his car in silence. One of the best things about Mark is that he knows when it's cool to be quiet. Other friendships I've had have always fallen victim to that awkwardness where you don't have anything to say, but you're not comfortable enough with the other person to just be with them without running your mouth.

After driving for a while, I let him know it's cool to let me out at the corner of my street. He gives me a tight, sympathetic smile and I wave goodbye, bracing myself for another round of parental disappointment.

* * *

Being grounded is boring as fuck. It's been a couple days now, and I've listened to every album I own, I've perfected a few of the more recent covers we'd learned for the band, I helped Audrey with her colors and I've played a few rounds of tea party with Molly. I even read a book. But I'm tired of hanging around the house every day, so I've decided to sneak out tonight.

I don't appear to have an end date for my punishment, which leaves me with a perpetual feeling of apprehension. Spending winter break in my room will be reason enough to never break another rule again. Although, as clearly referenced by the fact that I'm already slipping out the side door and pulling my old bike out from behind the bushes (where I'd stashed it earlier that day when Mark dropped me off after school), I have a hard time following rules. And I'm slightly impressed by my ability to piss off my parents. It's very seldom I make it all the way through a grounding without my mom caving in and feeling sorry for me. But I guess getting caught smoking and showing up hung over after being missing all night falls under the category of Very Bad Behavior.

But the biggest problem is that my band is more than a little pissed off at me right now. Since I'm now banned from the phone, no exceptions, Violet had to tell Julian about my situation. And I'm pretty sure she sugar coated his response for me. Especially because I can't tell them exactly when I'll be able to rehearse again. All I could do was promise to learn all my music backwards and forwards and hope that was enough to mollify them for now.

I finally arrive in front of Mark's house. I put down the kick stand on my bike and stare at the house for a minute, trying to remember where Mark's window would be. I know it would be on the east side of the house, but there were a lot of windows on that side. I figured it would be safe to take a guess, since his parents room was on the opposite side of the upstairs.

I pick up a little rock from a landscaping display and throw it at one of the windows, then impatiently throw another one when the first one fails to get a response. Another minute goes by and I'm about to throw one more just to make sure when the window opens and Mark's sister Cindy sticks her head out. I'd forgotten Mark had told me she would be home from college for a month or so.

"Hey, Romeo, Mark's is the next window over," she hisses. "And tell him to go out the back door, it's quieter." She is clearly irritated at being woken up, but she still manages to look amused, giving me a tired smile and waving me away with a yawn. I quietly call out a thanks and an apology but she's already back inside and her window slides shut. I pick up another little rock and chuck it at Mark's real window. A second rock later and Mark opens his window and looks around in confusion while sporting a serious case of bed head. For some reason he looks surprised to see me here.

"Roger?" he asks, adjusting his crooked glasses.

"Come on, let's go for a walk," I grin at him, watching him reach under his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose.

"I'm grounded," he protests.

"So am I, let's go," I tell him, rolling my eyes. "Oh and your sister said to use…"

"The back door, I know," he says, cutting me off and smirking at my surprised expression. "You're not the only one who sneaks out, Roger. Give me a couple minutes."

I wait in front of his house until he emerges from the back, anxiously patting down his hair with an irritated frown on his face.

"Here, stash your bike on the side," he directs me, pointing to a secluded spot. I dump it on the ground and we head back toward the sidewalk together.

"Where are we going?" he asks, his eyes still half-lidded and sleepy. He pulls his coat a little tighter. I guess it is pretty cold out.

I shrug. "Just felt like getting out. Being confined to the house all day is giving me cabin fever."

"We've been grounded for what, three days?" he teases me. "How do you plan on surviving if this lasts for a few weeks?"

"That's what I don't get! Haven't they seen The Shining? Don't they know what happens to people who have to stay inside all day?"

"You're so dramatic," Mark yawns. "It's not that bad."

"How is it not that bad? You got banned from more stuff than I did."

"I have plenty of time to do my homework now," he jokes, smiling when I scoff at his response. "I've been reading a lot, actually. About film and stuff? I can't try any of it out right now, but it's still pretty cool."

This prompts Mark to tell me about the homemade camera box project he's been doing in his photos class. Apparently there's a way to use a shoebox and tin foil or something and it will take pictures. I have no idea. Mark has explained, on multiple occasions, how cameras work to me. And every time I come away feeling more like an idiot. This shoebox camera sounds like some witchcraft hocus pocus to me and I tell him as much. He rolls his eyes.

"It's not magic, Roger. It's science."

"Considering your usual grasp of scientific concepts, I'm not sure how much stock I should put into your 'it's science' theory, comrade," I tease him and he scowls in response, perhaps remembering our latest catastrophe during Chemistry lab. We make a destructive pair when given chemicals and glassware and that's without factoring in Mark's inability to correctly read instructions.

It's clear that Mark is too tired to take my teasing of him lightly, so to restore his good humor I nudge him and smile when he looks up.

"Please continue telling me about your magic picture shoebox," I request and he returns the smile but shakes his head.

"It's not that cool anyway," he says, shoving his hands into the pocket of his hoodie. "It's kind of nerdy, I guess." Damn.

"Hey, don't talk about my best friend like that," I say, giving him an apologetic grin and throwing an arm around his shoulders, determined to drag him back into a good mood.

He finally smiles again and then we're back on track, commiserating over our punishments and once again talking about our art. We walk for a long time, and even though it's cold and we both have to be up in a few hours, it's only reluctantly that we start heading back toward Mark's house. We say goodnight and I start pedaling back home, yawning loudly every couple minutes. I hide my bike back in the bushes on the side of the house and quietly make my way upstairs. It's after four am, and I have to be up in about two and half hours. I'll be tired tomorrow, but I still feel like it was a worthwhile bit of misbehavior.

* * *

Our parents didn't go easy on us, but right before winter break started we got permission to leave our respective houses again and I finally got my car back. I was sprung a couple days before Mark, which ended up working out great, as it gave me two days in a row of long rehearsals with the band. Both guys allowed me back in on their good graces faster than I expected. Julian had originally been less forgiving than Ian, who didn't really seem to care either way as long as he still had somewhere to spend time smoking and playing bass. And I couldn't really take offense, it's sort of hard to have rehearsals when you're missing a front man. But since I'd spent my isolation getting all my parts perfect, I was forgiven pretty quickly. We're going to call one of our possible venues, after we've had a couple more days to get back in sync with each other, and see if they'd take us as a cover band. Even if we could get in as the opener, just to get some exposure. We made tentative plans to get together today as well, but not until later in the afternoon.

Today is the first day of break, I sleep in until Molly decides to wake me up by jumping on my bed and singing. Someone like Mark who will sleep all day if undisturbed and gets grumpy if he misses out on his naptime would probably find this behavior irritating. But seeing as how Molly is yelling out the words to 'Rebel Rebel', I have a hard time being anything but proud.

Christmas is in a couple of days, and Violet is having a party tomorrow night for us and other people from school that she promised would include old holiday movies and nog. Molly gets bored waiting for me to completely drag myself out of bed and she skips out of my room and probably back downstairs. As much as I wouldn't mind playing around with my sisters for a few hours, I have lots of shit I need to buy for gifts. Thanks to my last few weeks under house arrest, I've gotten almost nothing done. I finally get up and sort of toss my blanket back over the mattress in my usual half-assed attempt at making my bed. I guess I should shower, especially since I plan to call Mark before I leave and see if he wants to help me pick out some girl presents for my sisters and Violet, since I already got him something a while ago. I hope I eventually remember where I stashed it.

Once I'm dressed and my hair is properly in place, though it's badly in need of another bleaching, I head downstairs to call Mark. Audrey is watching Princess Bride again and Molly is finger painting with my mom on the plastic covered dining room table. Mom smiles at me when I come over to inspect their artwork. Molly's painting looks suspiciously like the cover of Dark Side of the Moon.

"Looking good, ladies," I tell them, tugging on one of Molly's pigtails. She turns around and sticks her tongue out at me before sticking her finger in the puddle of purple paint again.

"Going out?" My mom asks me and I nod.

"Yeah, I'm going to call Mark. We're going to find some strangers to take candy from, or something," I say, giving her a hopeful smile which she thankfully returns, though she still gives me a cynical eye and makes me swear up and down I'll call if I'm going to be late.

When I get to Mark's house Cindy answers the door, possibly looking even cooler than the last time she was visiting. Since I last saw her from a dark window, I couldn't appreciate the new colored highlights (purple in addition to the pink that was there previously), and a nose ring instead of the previous tiny stud. I like her academic punk sort of style. She smirks at me, crossing her arms and leaning against the doorframe.

"So you're here for my baby brother, huh?" she asks, quirking an eyebrow. "You think maybe you can keep your pants on this time?"

"I'll try, ma'am," I grin back at her and she narrows her eyes.

"Don't sass me, junior," she snaps playfully, moving aside to let me into the house. Mark is halfway down the stairs and he glares at Cindy.

"Stop scaring away my friends," he says, nudging me toward the door as soon as he's by my side.

"Marky, this wouldn't happen to be that little hoodlum Mom was telling me about, would it? The one who takes my little brother on all night drinking benders and encourages him to skip school?" she smirks at me again. "And sneak out of the house?"

"Of course not," Mark says. "And if anyone asks where I am, tell them I'm reading to the elderly and studying for the SATs with some honor students."

"As long as neither parent finds out about the tattoo I showed you, I guess I could pretend you're an upstanding citizen for awhile," she says.

"Can I see your tattoo?" I ask. "Is it anywhere interesting?"

"Shut up, Roger," Mark sighs, pushing me toward the door while Cindy winks at me.

"The one I just got isn't, but you might need a permission slip to see the other one," she says.

Mark gets a pink tinge in his cheeks and finally succeeds in pushing me out the front door.

"Your sister is pretty awesome," I tell him as we get into my car. He scowls at me.

"She acts weird around you," he says finally after a long pause. "Don't encourage her."

"How was that weird? That was normal young person behavior, wasn't it?" I start the car and turn down the music so I can hear his response.

"She's like, all flirty or something," he looks over at me. "Please don't date my sister. It would be really awkward."

"Mark, I don't want to date your sister anymore than I want to date Violet. I just think she's cool."

He looks marginally relieved for a moment, until I ask him if he knows where Cindy's other tattoo is.

"Ew, come on. I'm trying to pretend I didn't hear that," he whines and I laugh at him and turn the music up a little bit.

"Did you get Violet something already?" I ask him. "I don't really know what to get."

He shakes his head. "Just try a mall, I guess?"

"Yeah, probably. I need to get Audrey and Molly something anyway so there would be a toy store there too."

A sudden thought occurs to me and I feel stupid for a second. "Uh, I got you a present but like, do I give it to you for Christmas or for the other one?"

"Chanukah?" he asks, smiling at my confusion. "It doesn't matter. We do both. Although Chanukah isn't actually that big of a deal. Not like, Rosh Hashanah or Passover or something."

At my blank look he rolls his eyes. "Don't worry about it. I'm in no way opposed to receiving Christmas presents."

* * *

Our trip is a success, I leave with some art supplies for Violet, a princess game and a doll for Audrey (who despite my efforts is way more into princesses than rock and roll) and a starter guitar for Molly. It's not quite Dad's old Les Paul, which would be way too big and heavy for her still, but I think she can handle something a little more exciting than her current shoebox banjo. And the kid sizes were only about $30 at the record store. Mark got Vi some random cool stuff like plastic glow in the dark stars to hang on a ceiling (the deluxe bag that comes with planets and shit too), and a little stuffed fish from that Disney movie about the mermaid. We took my sisters to see it a month or so ago. I snuck a flask full of rum into Violet's purse and topped off our Cokes at the movie theatre in case it ended up being really stupid. Vi was a big fan the mermaid's little fish friend. I stayed amused by trying to analyze the musical numbers in my head.

"I think I need to head to Julian's for practice now," I tell Mark. "But you can come if you want. I'm sure Violet will be there."

"Do you mind if we stop back at my house first?" he asks. "I want to get my camera and drop off this stuff." He'd also gotten Cindy's present and a couple things for his parents, and possibly something for me, since I'd been firmly ordered to stay away from him for about ten minutes while we were hanging around the music store. I could see why he'd want to promptly hide that in his room rather than have me accidentally on purpose sneak a peek if he left it in my car.

When we get back to his house we head upstairs to dump his purchases in his room. He puts the bags on the floor and kicks them swiftly under the bed just as Cindy appears in the doorway.

"Back already?" she asks. "Where's the mischief? The mayhem? It's not even dark yet."

"Hopefully it's waiting at band practice for me," I grin. Mark shakes his head.

"Don't you have your own friends to annoy?" he asks her. She smiles in response.

"Are you saying you don't value our time spent together?" Mark ignores her and starts gathering up his camera and a couple packs of film. "What kind of band is it?" She asks me.

"At the moment it's a rock/punk cover band, but we're working on original stuff now. You wanna come?"

Mark sighs dramatically when she happily agrees to tag along but I get the feeling he doesn't mind at all. Whether he wants to admit it or not, he's pleased his sister decided to spend most of her break at home instead of in the city with her friends. When we get back down to the car Mark offers to let her ride shotgun, which she declines though she makes me promise to turn my stereo up so she can hear it good in back. Mark seems to have gotten over feeling weird about me and Cindy talking which is good because she gets excited that I have Transformer in the tape deck and starts telling me about one of her friends who met Lou Reed and barely survived to tell about it. Apparently he caught him on a bad day and talked too much about Velvet Underground and Lou was really grumpy and acted like an asshole. Mark finds this really funny.

"What would you do if you met someone famous that you thought was awesome and they were a jerk to you? Would you still like them?" he asks me. "I think that would ruin the illusion a little for me."

"Dude, Lou Reed could punch me in the face and I'd still think he was fucking awesome." I tell him, then shrug. "Most other people, yeah I could see being put off by it. But I don't want to be their buddy, I just want them to make killer music."

I expect Cindy to join in the conversation, but she's opened up a book and appears to have tuned us out for now so we talk more about famous people we hope wouldn't punch us in the face if we ever met them until we get to Julian's house. Violet's car is parked out front, as I predicted it would be. The garage door is open and Vi is sipping a soda and reading a comic book while Julian bangs away on his drums, his mop of black hair swinging with the rhythm. Cindy and Violet look pleased to see each other and to my surprise, scamper off together with far more camaraderie than I would have expected since they only met once before. Mark looks dejected for a minute at being the only spectator without the girls but once he pulls out his camera and opens up a new pack of film to shove inside he looks marginally less put out.

While I pull my guitar out of its case, Julian calls Ian to tell him to come over whenever and then we hang out for a while. Mark listens to us talk about the band and our woes of trying to think of a band name. The girls come back a few minutes later, smiling widely. They settle themselves on the couch with Mark as me and Julian finish setting some stuff up. And then I get almost sort of nervous, which surprises the hell out of me. It's been a while since we've had anyone sit in on a rehearsal, mostly because of my recent hiatus, and we've gotten a lot better in that time. Today we're just basically playing through most of the songs we've learned to see what can be improved. But I've never been in a good band before. I've always played my best and tried to sound awesome, but I never expected anyone to think we were good. Alchemy's Revenge played too many stupid songs, and we didn't play them particularly well. I'm actually still amazed we ever got gigs. It did help that Ryan was always really good with promoting us, possibly his only redeeming quality. But for the first time I'm really proud of our group and how we sound and how we work together. And I don't want Mark (or Vi and Cindy) to think we're horrible. And I know Mark will be honest, which I want, but I have to admit to myself it will really suck if he doesn't like us.

Once Ian pulls up and gets his bass set up, we get ready to play. I really need a cigarette, but I still haven't managed to learn how to play guitar while smoking like Ian can. We huddle around our song list for a few minutes, trying to figure out which ones we really need to work on that we should play through, and also what are some of our best songs, so we can show off a little.

We finally settle on starting with Ever Fallen in Love, the Buzzcocks song. It's one of our best songs and really fun to sing and perform. Mark takes a couple pictures while we play. I convince Julian and Ian to play one of our Elvis Costello songs for him, (Radio, Radio) even though it still needs lots of work. Mark finds this exciting and he grins widely while tapping against the arm of the couch to the beat. We do a couple Clash and Smiths songs, which Cindy thought was awesome, and Violet seems to enjoy our updated versions of Rave On (Buddy Holly) and Angel Eyes (Frank Sinatra).

We took a break for a few minutes to order a pizza for later and get some sodas, and Cindy makes Mark take a Polaroid of her with us and then insisted we autograph it for her.

"Just in case you kids get famous someday," she tells us with a wink. She's half teasing but also a tiny bit serious, which is cool.

While we wait for the pizza we do a few more songs, some of the Lou ones I insisted on, a couple Stooges songs and some X-Ray Spex and Cramps. When I feel our audiences attention waning during the punk songs, we bust out some XTC and Talking Heads. We're finishing up Queen Bitch (Bowie) when the pizza gets here and we lay down our instruments for the night. We dig into the pizza and hang out for another hour or two until Julian suggests his parents might have had enough rock music for one night. Which is understandable, although I doubt the truthfulness of that statement when it becomes obvious Violet is not leaving yet. She says goodbye to Cindy and hugs me and Mark, and reminds us of her party but doesn't pack up any of her stuff and resumes her place on the garage couch. But either way we pile back into my car and head back to Mark's house.

"What do you think?," I ask on our way back to the car. "Am I going to be pumping gas in a couple of years, or do we have a shot?"

Mark smiles in response. "Some of the songs are a little too, I don't know, intense for me? I like the ones where you're singing instead of screaming better."

I nod, not taking that as an affront. I already know Mark's taste runs slightly less hardcore than mine. He looks thoughtful for a minute, before going on.

"I don't really know how to explain what I liked musically, because I don't really know what I'm hearing, not like you do," he says. "But I know that it sounds like actual music and I'm pretty sure you're all in tune. And I really like the range of songs you have and how you've made them work for you."

When I keep staring at him expectantly he rolls his eyes. "And yes, Roger. No one can play a guitar solo quite like you, you fucking rock star. Happy?"

I grin at him and give him a shove towards the car, satisfied with his reaction.

Once in the car, Mark turns in his seat to look back at Cindy. "You and Violet seemed really friendly," he says, with a raised eyebrow.

Cindy smiles mischievously. "We've been keeping in touch."

Mark doesn't seem to have a response for that, so he turns back to the front seat and shrugs at me. I turn the radio on and there's a Devo song playing that gets Mark all excited so I wait until it's over to put my Lou tape back in. I'm feeling really awesome right now. I know we played great and even the stuff we need to work on still sounds concert ready, by shitty suburban bar standards anyway. It's a good feeling to not be embarrassed to invite people to your gigs, and I grin widely when I remember my mom telling me how much she wanted to see me play. I definitely think that that's a possibility now, even if she just came to a rehearsal, since the likeliness of getting my dad to watch Audrey and Molly while she went out to a bar in the evening was nonexistent. I'm still feeling sort of bad about getting her so mad at me recently, and I wonder if inviting her along might help get me further back on her good side. I don't think Julian and Ian would mind. My mom is really cool, as moms go, and she knows more about music than Mark does, and getting her opinion could actually be helpful.

Back at Mark's Cindy immediately heads to the kitchen to pull out a snack and then messes up Mark's hair as she passes us on her way upstairs. Mark makes a face at her, but he's smiling when we head into his room.

"Where are your parents?" I ask him, feeling the oddness of not having Mrs. Cohen hovering over us offering food and parental concern.

"I'm pretty sure they're out with some friends," he says. "Which is good, because mom would probably insist upon supervising your visitations for a while."

I grin proudly. "She really thinks I'm a big badass?"

Mark does not smile. "Sort of, yeah. And it's not funny, Roger! I seriously can't get into trouble for a while, my parents really would ban me from hanging out with you."

"Yeah, whatever. Like I said, that's more inconvenient than anything else. Don't be such a killjoy."

Mark shakes his head, but drops the subject. A few seconds later his face lights up.

"You want to see something cool?" he asks and I nod. He picks up the old camera he got from the thrift store a while back and starts fiddling with the buttons on it, and turning a key looking thing on the side. Then he points it at me and it starts making a whirring sort of noise.

"Is there actually film in it?" I ask him and he nods from behind the camera.

"No sound though, obviously," he says. "But it's still awesome. Do something cool."

"I left my guitar in the car," I tell him. "What do you want me to do?"

He gives me an exasperated look. "No sound, Roger! I don't know, just do what you always do."

I don't really know what it is I always do besides play guitar and look pissed off, so I just sneer at the camera. Mark rolls his eyes.

I stroll over to his desk and sift through a stack of cassette tapes sitting on it.

"Do _something_," he urges me.

"I am. I'm judging your music," I say and he reluctantly lowers the camera when it stops whirring. He sets it down again, looking disappointed.

"I was thinking of trying to make a film with it," he says. "Obviously it would have to be silent but it could have title cards like old movies did."

"You're not going to ask me to grow a Chaplin moustache and try to act are you?" I ask.

"Well..."

"You need a soundtrack?" I offer. "I am all about the soundtrack making. I will even let you keep taking those kind of awkwardly erotic, uh, _artistic_, pictures of me standing around shirtless and angry looking. But I don't actually know shit about acting."

"So?" he asks. "I don't know shit about directing. I don't need you to do anything brilliant. It would actually be great to get practice with actors who aren't super invested in how the final product looks. You know, until I get the hang of it."

We stare each other down for a minute and I remember that he sat through more than one Alchemy's Revenge show for me and finally I sigh in defeat. "Fine. But I get at least a couple shots of Jack before you make me put on any wacky costumes."

"Seeing as how drinking makes you considerably happier and more compliant that would actually work out fine," he says, smiling.

The door to Mark's room opens and Cindy pokes her head in.

"Knock much?" Mark asks her and she smirks.

"I could hear your bantering all the way in my room so I figured I was already invited to the conversation," she says. "But you might want to have Benedick get a move on, Beatrice. Mom just called to see if we've had dinner yet, they're on their way home now."

"Does this mean I get to sneak out your window before Momma Cohen can catch me stealing your virtue?" I ask Mark.

"Yeah, go for it. I hope you break your neck on the way down. And why am I Beatrice?" he snaps at Cindy as she disappears back into the hallway, laughing.

"Who?" I ask.

"Couple semesters in college and she's suddenly a fucking Shakespeare scholar," he says. "You should probably go, though. Mom's not banning us from hanging out but I don't want her to give you a hard time or anything."

"All right. Want me to pick you up for Violet's party tomorrow?"

"Yeah, okay. I'm gonna have to tell Mom I'm sleeping over at your house anyway."

I laugh. "Tough call on what would be better, I guess. Coed sleepover or disappearing into the night with the hoodlum who destroyed her baby's innocence."

"Her perception of it, at least," he says as we head out of his room and down the stairs. "And when you do see my Mom again, can you at least act like you're not proud of it?"

* * *

When Mark and I get to Violet's house the next evening to help set up, Julian is already there. They're listening to Patti Smith and he peeks out of the kitchen to wave, almost dropping the giant mixing bowl he has clutched against his chest. The bowl is leaving a thick line of flour on the front of the dress shirt that Violet likely bullied him into wearing. We were instructed to dress spiffy, which I ignored and Mark tried to follow by wearing a nice sweater, though sadly not the cheesy holiday one he had to wear in his family Christmas photos. Violet has a dress on and a headband with a bow on it in her hair. She greets us, giving my tight jeans a disapproving look. I try to look earnest.

"These are my nice jeans," I insist. "They're not even torn or anything."

She shakes her head with a smile. "Come on, help us carry the food into the dining room. People should be getting here soon."

Mark and I help to finish setting up the food. There are some generic appetizers like crackers, cheese and one lonely plate of vegetables and dip, but most of the spread is made of plates of holiday related confections. There are several kinds of cookies (though thankfully no sugar cookies which always look misleadingly delicious when nicely decorated but usually taste like cardboard), brownies covered in thick frosting, apple and pumpkin pie, some sort of chocolate fountain thing that sits next to a large plate of strawberries, squares of chocolate fudge filled with nuts and several different kinds of cupcakes all stuck with little toothpicks that have Christmassy drawings taped to them. Violet also sets out several bottles of soda and I help her carry a large bowl of eggnog to put out as well.

"Go easy on this," Violet says to me, frowning back at the kitchen. "I think Julian went a little overboard when he added the rum."

"What's that? Soup?" Mark asks, coming back into the dining room with a couple more folding chairs to set up.

I laugh at him as Violet sprinkles nutmeg across the top of the nog and sticks a ladle into it.

When I tell him it's eggnog he looks skeptically down into the bowl. Smiling, Violet takes one of the plastic cups from a stack next to the bowl, ladles a small bit of nog into it and hands it to Mark. He stares down into the cup for a minute, then hesitantly takes a sip. Violet nods approvingly when he looks pleasantly surprised and then she hurries back into the kitchen to help Julian finish clearing up.

Mark and I have each had a couple cups of eggnog before other people start arriving and Violet has to shoo us away from the bowl so the new people have a chance to taste it. I'm initially grateful Ian came as well, since I figured he'd be someone else I'd be willing to talk to, but soon after saying hello he slips away to smoke on the patio with a pretty girl who I think is one of Violet's art class friends and never comes back. I recognize some of the other people who arrive, but I'm not friendly enough with any of them to attempt more than an awkward hello.

"It wouldn't kill you to talk to people, Roger," Mark says as the girl from his photos class he was talking to waves goodbye and heads over toward the nog table.

"When did you get so social?" I ask him, though I'm figuring it has something to do with him finishing off his fourth glass of eggnog.

"Be nice," he scolds me as Violet heads over to us.

"I've got another bowl of eggnog prepared," she says. "But Julian and I need to drag it out from the fridge in the garage. I've got some tapes set out by the TV in the living room, can you start one up?"

"Do you have any alcohol that isn't mixed with eggnog?" I ask her as Mark heads toward the living room to comply, waving at some guy from our gym class as he goes. "I can't believe I'm going to say this but between the nog and the awesome snacks I think I'm on the edge of a sugar coma."

She smirks. "Or you want to get drunk enough to stop worrying about looking too cool to talk to anyone."

"Hey, I don't need to worry about looking cool. That goes without saying," I grin.

Violet smiles obligingly. "Obviously. Don't worry, a couple other people have asked too. I took some stuff out earlier than my parents won't miss. I'll get it set up."

About half the crowd moves into the living room to watch movies while they talk and hang out. Violet brings me a Coke full of whiskey on one of her rounds while Mark keeps slipping back into the dining room to replenish his nog cup and bring us more snacks. We get through Rudolph and the one about the Grinch stealing Christmas and then during the Charlie Brown Christmas I notice Violet and Julian being all cutesy. I nudge Mark and when he catches on we start imitating them, making doe eyes at each other and coyly stealing strawberries off each other's plates. I am feeding Mark some of his carrot sticks when Violet gets wise and just cuddles closer to Julian and lays a big kiss on him. Mark laughs when I put an arm around him and almost chokes on his carrot so I give up and go back to watching the show.

* * *

Later in the evening I'm fairly buzzed, Violet and Julian are adorably tipsy, and apparently no one told Mark the nog had alcohol in it because he is about eighty sheets to the wind. Mark doesn't get ridiculously drunk often, but it's hilarious when he does. He's a cuddly sort of drunk who sits too close to people and touches everything and keeps grabbing for my hands when we're talking.

I'm feeling a little lightheaded (someday I'll learn to not mix my liquors), so even though Violet has turned off the TV and put on some dancey music, I grab a water bottle from her fridge and take a seat to get my bearings. The room spins a little bit, but after a minute or two and a couple sips of water I start feeling better.

"Roger, you are sitting," Mark says accusingly, his hand on my shoulder. "Why would you be sitting?"

I smile up at him. I'm pretty drunk but he's completely annihilated and his hangover tomorrow is going to be epic.

"Just a sec, Marky," I tell him. "Too much rum, I think."

He tugs on my arm a little. "You have to dance with me," he insists. "We're dancing now and I need someone to dance with so you have to dance with me." He tugs again, but when he sees I plan on sitting for another minute he actually pouts and then immediately afterwards grins widely.

"I'll just dance here," he says. He goes back into that weirdo flailing style of dancing the two of us have claimed as our own, except he takes my water bottle from me and puts in on the table behind us. He grabs my hands and tries to stand in front of me while dancing. It doesn't work out too well, since he can't figure out where to stand with my legs out in front of me and I laugh at him while he tries to figure out a solution. I look over at where Violet and Julian are dancing together, Violet is giggling loudly and trying to teach Julian some sort of retro-y dance step that it seems like neither one of them is getting quite right, and while I'm not paying attention Mark jumps forward and suddenly I have a lap full of Mark. I turn back to him with a surprised laugh, and Mark looks hilariously pleased with himself. He's still sort of standing over me in my chair, with my legs between his. He moves our clasped hands back and forth to the beat and I try to move with him but he's sort of gyrating his hips right in front of my face and I'm laughing so hard I can barely breathe, especially when somebody makes an obnoxious 'wooo!' at us.

Unable to keep his balance with his legs spread that far apart, he eventually gives up and just sits on my thighs.

"You're heavy," I tell him.

He stares at me for a second then says in a hilariously serious voice, "I think I need to barf."

I try to help him stand up but he sort of just slumps against me and rests his head on my shoulder.

"Not helping, Marky," I say, trying to simultaneously push him off while still holding him up. His face is pressed against my neck when I finally manage to get us up off the chair and headed toward the bathroom. It takes several minutes, as Mark is walking backwards while still sort of wrapped around me. Trying to dislodge him only made him cling harder.

At the door of the bathroom I finally shrug him off after I kick out a couple of girls retouching their makeup and sit him down on the floor in front of the toilet.

"Why are we in the bathroom?" he asks me.

"You said you needed to barf," I say.

"But we can't hear the music in here," he says. "We should go back to the music."

"We will," I assure him. "Are you sure you don't need to barf first?"

"I don't think so," he says. "I think I need to dance. I think we're supposed to be dancing."

I argue with him for a couple minutes, but eventually he stands himself back up and grabs my hand, pulling me back into the party. I roll my eyes but let him drag me.

"If you get barf on me," I warn him. "I'm trading you in."

* * *

I wake up to the sound of someone puking loudly in the bathroom. I glance over to the big armchair that Mark had fallen asleep sprawled across last night. It's empty. Not feeling so great myself, but concerned, I roll off of the couch and head toward the bathroom to check on him, stepping over a snoring guy sleeping face down on the carpet on the way. As her mom was apparently out for the weekend and her sister was at another party somewhere else, it hadn't seemed to bother Violet, who had snuck off upstairs with Julian around 2am, that a couple people too drunk to drive home had zonked out around her house. Since I ended up in a similar state myself, I'm glad I told my mom I was sleeping over at Mark's before I came over last night.

"Mark?" I call to him, knocking on the bathroom door.

There's more barfing, then a long pause and an almost inaudible, "go away".

"Mark, it's me. Do you need something? You okay?" I ask, trying to ignore that my own head is throbbing with the beginning of a killer migraine.

He's quiet for a minute and I lean closer to the door.

"Water," he says quietly, in a miserable sounding voice.

I head back into the kitchen and pull two bottles of water out of the fridge. When I knock on the door again I expect him to just reach a hand out for it, but he opens the door all the way and lets me in.

"I'm never drinking again," he mumbles as I sit down beside him on the floor. I uncap one of the waters and hand it over to him. He takes a long drink, looks vaguely sick again, but recovers himself.

"You say that every time we drink too much," I remind him, taking a drink from my own bottle and he attempts to smile.

"I think I actually mean it this time," he says, closing his eyes, leaning back against the wall and holding the water bottle against his forehead.

"Well, you know, everything in moderation, Marky," I take another drink of water and lean back against the wall with him. "I think I ate too much."

"There's something I never thought I'd hear you say," he says, laughing, but stops abruptly, his hand over his mouth. He waits a minute, then takes another drink of water, still looking queasy.

We sit together for a while longer, then I hold Mark's glasses for him while he barfs again.

"You good?" I ask him when he finally sits back on his heels, still looking pale and sweaty but finally somewhat less sick. He nods and I hand him back his glasses, then hold out a hand. He takes it and slowly stands up.

"Come on, Violet has to have real food somewhere. We'll get you some toast or something," I say, and threading my arm under his and around his back to steady him a bit after he wobbles on his first few steps, I lead us out of the bathroom and back toward the kitchen.


End file.
